


New Beginnings

by cheerfulmorgue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Parent!lock, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlolly - Freeform, daughter - Freeform, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-04 23:44:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14031471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheerfulmorgue/pseuds/cheerfulmorgue
Summary: [Post Reichenbach AU] The last thing Sherlock expects when he finally comes home from Serbia is ... a daughter.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The Meena to my Molly.](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=The+Meena+to+my+Molly.).



Sherlock Holmes was beaten and bruised – not just from his adventures in Serbia, but also from his restaurant adventures with John Watson, which was basically one huge beat down fest, powered by John’s emotions. 

He was almost surprised at how John went off on him seeing as he was in front of his soon-to-be fiancee, Mary Morstan. She didn’t seem to mind, though. In fact, she is the first girlfriend that Sherlock actually didn’t mind. He didn’t want to say that he necessarily liked her, but he kind of did. She liked him. In fact, she had promised him that she would talk John into forgiving him, allowing him a second chance, which he knew would happen anyway but he hoped that Mary’s pleading would speed things along. With a terror attack rising in London he needed his blogger by his side as soon as possible. Hopefully it wouldn’t take too long.

For now, though, he had someone he had to see. Honestly, he was tempted to see her first – she already knew that he was alive – but he knew he might as well get John out of the way, not procrastinate. He knew a beating was inevitable, so he decided to get it out of the way. Besides, the sooner John was back by his side the better.

Sherlock snuck his way into the women’s employee locker room at Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital, standing behind some green and black lockers while he waited for Molly to come in.

When she came in, he felt some sort of relief at seeing her in her light blue collared, floral shirt covered by a dark blue jumper, her lab coat swaying as she walks down the hall and into the locker room. She took her keys out of her lab coat pocket and stepped up to her locker, opening it. Sherlock took a step forward and when she saw his reflection in the locker mirror, a gasp escaped her lips as she whirled around to face him. After a second, the corners of her lips tugged up along with Sherlock’s.

“Sherlock?” 

“Molly Hooper.”

Molly rushed forward, holding a somewhat nervous demeanor (for reasons that seemed to be different then why she was normally nervous) as she wrapped her arms around him. He placed his arms around her, his hands resting at the small of her back.

A long time ago, back in university, Sherlock had overheard Molly say to one of her millions of boyfriends that one should never pull away from a hug. Whoever you are hugging should be the one to pull away because you never know how long they need a hug for. Usually Molly hugs for at least thirty seconds. This time, however, she pulls away after thirteen.

Sherlock furrowed his brows, but said nothing. Molly’s face seemed to have fallen, though she still expressed excitement along with her nervousness. 

She bit her lip and looked up at him, trying to avoid his eyes, but he caught them, trying to figure out the problem before she can tell him. The corner of her lip lifts up more and she sighs with relief. “I can’t even begin to express how happy I am that you’re home, Sherlock.”

His head cocks to the side, but he smiles at her despite his rare confusion. “Neither can I, Molly.” He pulled her to him again, her body stiffening, causing him to pause. He assumed that she is just nervous because he was acting differently than normal, though how could she not expect that after nearly three years of dismantling a tangled criminal web?  As much as he hated to admit it, he missed people. Not stupid people, but people like John and Molly and Mrs Hudson – even Grant Lestrade. He was pretty sure that that will change in the near future, though, as he was not one for enjoying human presence.

“Molly?”

“Hm?”

“You look sad.” She buried her head in his chest, clutching at his back for safety, causing him to groan at the pain from the lashes on his back. 

She shook her head. “You’re wrong.”

His brows furrowed. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me, then: What’s wrong?”

She was quiet for a long moment. “I’m afraid.”

* * *

 

After revealing himself to Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, Sherlock found himself at Molly’s door at nine pm, deciding to knock on it rather that pick the lock like he usually did. When she opened the door, she stepped out, shutting it behind her, and looked up at him, her brows worried, a slight frown upon her lips.

“I don’t exactly know how to tell you what I need to tell you, Sherlock,” she began, looking at her sock clad feet, “but I need to tell you that you probably aren’t going to like me very much when I tell you and-”

“Molly.”

“Sorry, I just…” she sighed, “I wanted to write you letters.”

“You did write me letters,” he interrupted, his head cocking as it had so many times that day. “I sent you letters too.”

“Yes, well…” she thinks briefly, “I wasn’t completely honest with you in the letters.”

“What do you mean?”

“I suppose I’ve not been lying to you.... Just avoiding the subject.” She closed her eyes, then looked up at him, locking her doe eyes with his icy blues. “Sherlock, I’ve been keeping something from you. Something … not good to keep from people you care about.”

Sherlock’s stomach churned, he had a bad feeling about where this was going. In fact, he was pretty sure he knew exactly where. Instead of saying anything, though, he allowed her to take his hand and he followed her through her sitting room, down a short hall, and into what was once her guest bedroom. 

Now the guest bedroom had powder pink walls, yellow, frilly curtains covering the two windows, and in between the windows sat a crib. In the crib lay a young child, peacefully sleeping underneath her lilac blanket. 

Molly looked at him and he felt his jaw unhinge slightly at the sight. “How old?” His voice was light, as if he didn’t want to wake the child.

“Nearly two years.”

“No, no, no,” he shook his head, “Exactly. How old  _ exactly _ ?”

Molly paused, adding in her head. “One year, eight months, and twenty two days.”

“She was born on–”

“13 February, 2013.”

“Subtract nine months from that and….”

“15 May, 2012.” Sherlock turned to look at Molly, a look of near horror on his face. “She was conceived on 15 May, 2012.”

“She’s…” He looked back at the child, watching her chest rise and fall slowly in her sleep, her light brown curls tangling themselves upon her head when she turned over towards him, showing him her full face.

Molly stepped up next to him, taking his hand in hers, unsure of whether or not it’s the right thing to do. “Sherlock, meet Maisie. Maisie Bronwyn Hooper-Holmes.”


	2. Chapter 2

While he knew that most people would be experiencing felicity in some way or another, and in a way he was, but under the circumstances that he had discovered his daughter he was, rather than incredibly happy, quite shocked and unhappy about not knowing about her.

He had spent time with Mycroft before going to see John, and he had kept mentioning Molly, which was suspicious to him, but Sherlock knew that Mycroft was clever and there was no way he didn’t know what happened. Of course he knew. He  _ always _ knew. If it weren’t a ridiculous fairy tale, he might would even say that Mycroft was psychic. 

 

_ “And what about  _ Molly Hooper _?” Her name rolled of his tongue almost in distaste, but not for any reasons Sherlock was aware. He assumed it was due to Mycroft’s general distaste for people other than himselves and… somebody else? He was sure Mycroft had his eye on someone, but refused to make a friend. _

_ Sherlock raised his brows. “Molly?” _

_ “Yes.” _

_ He straightened his jacket. “I’ll see her after John. Why?” _

_ “Oh, nothing.” Mycroft let out an uncharacteristic shrug. “Just making sure you see your pathologist.” _

_ “Why do you care?” he asked, brows furrowed. _

_ I don’t,” Mycroft said, quite genuinely, “I do, however, know that you care, or rather, you  _ will _ care:” _

_ “Has something happened to her?” _

_ Mycroft headed back to his desk, sitting on its edge. “I believe that that is not for me to tell.” _

 

When Molly had told Sherlock that she had something to tell him, he expected it, but what he  _ didn’t _ expect was for the news to be so sensitive of a topic that she had to tell it to him at her flat. And despite being the clever detective he was, it had not once crossed his mind that a child -  _ his child  _ \- would be involved. A child he never planned to have.

Of course, he knew the risk he and Molly took, but with Moriarty’s network loose and the possibility that Sherlock would be dead in a matter of months, unprotected sex had been the least of his and Molly’s worries. He knew the probability of a woman getting pregnant. As far as he could tell, she wasn’t ovulating at the time, decreasing the risk of pregnancy and the chance of a woman getting pregnant was only about 20% (which looking back at, he supposed that was a larger chance than he thought at the time). Plus, he often heard of couples actually trying to get pregnant and not succeeding until after several sessions of unprotected intercourse and he and Molly only had one night, hell, that was his first time  _ and _ she was using birth control pills. Had she taken them correctly? Had she switched brands?

One night. Fifteen minutes. That’s all it took.

 

Molly brought a mug of tea to Sherlock, taking a seat next to him on the crimson sofa. She watched him as he took a sip, blowing on her own steaming mug.

“I know it’s a shock,” she said, “It’s scary, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

She sighed. “I wanted to write you letters-”

“You  _ did _ write me letters.”

“-but I knew I couldn’t.” She set her mug down on the coffee table and turned towards him more. “Sherlock, in your letters you told me about what you were doing, what was happening wherever you were.”

“Yes.”

“And…” she took a breath, “the day I found out I was pregnant, that was the day that I got your letter from Bolivia. Remember that?”

He leaned back, wincing. “How could I forget?”

“It had been a month since you wrote to me,” Molly continues, picking up her mug again, sipping it, “I thought… maybe you were dead. I was sick and worried about you, so I took the test and it was positive.” She looked up, blinking away tears. “All I wanted was to talk to you. I wanted to tell you…. And then I got your letter.

“I had high hopes that the reason you hadn’t been writing was just because you hadn’t found the time, and I suppose, in a way, that was true. You told me in the letter that you had been held hostage, torchered, and Sherlock… it broke my heart.

“That’s when I decided to keep her a secret. I knew you were under so much stress, I just couldn’t put you under any more. I mean, I’m sure replying to my letters was stressful enough.”

Sherlock set his mug down and turned to her. “Molly, your letters helped me.”

“They did?”

He nodded. “They did…. Mycroft told me that the things I’d experience would eventually become too much, even for me. He said I needed somebody to keep in contact with. Not him. Not my parents. Definitely  _ not _ John.”

“And you chose me.”

“‘Course I did.”

A corner of Molly’s mouth raised. “It was really kind of Mycroft to help…. We probably couldn’t have kept in touch if he didn’t.”

There was a moment of silence before Sherlock asked, “Did he know?”

Molly hesitated, but nodded. “I was five months when he showed up at my flat.”

 

_ He had one hand resting on his umbrella as he stood in her sitting room. “I understand you are with child.” _

_ “W-what about it?” she stuttered. _

_ “It’s my brother’s, isn’t it?” _

_ She didn’t know what to say. “Cup of tea?” she spun around and started towards the kitchen, but he stopped her in her tracks, _

_ “You must tell him.” _

_ She stood, not facing him. “Sorry?” _

_ “You must tell him, Dr Hooper.” _

_ She shook her head as she turned around, tears welling in her eyes. “No, Mycroft. I can’t tell him.” _

_ He raised his brows. “Why not?” _

_ “You read our letters,” she said, “I’m not stupid, I know you do. Plus, you’re you, so you know what all he’s going through.” _

_ This time, he hesitated. Apparently thinking of what trouble his little brother was in was a sensitive topic. “Of course I do.” _

_ A tear slid down her cheek and she wiped at it with the sleeve of her red jumper. “Then you know as well as I do that he doesn’t need to know.”  _

_ He sighed. “I suppose you’re right.” _

_ She nodded slightly, tears still staining her cheeks. “Thank you.” _

 

“I suppose you were right.”

“I know I was.” Molly watched him for a moment. He stared at his mug, silent and still. She waited a minute, maybe two, before asking, “You okay?”

He let out a short, snort laugh as he shook his head. “Not really.”

“What are you thinking?”

“What am I thinking?” Another laugh. He shrugged. “Not much of anything…. I believe that what I am feeling right now is what people call ‘dad shock.’”

“And how  _ do _ you feel about that?” she asked. “...Being a dad?”

“What are you, a therapist?” He sipped his tea and Molly shook her head.

“No,” she said, “I’m not. But I  _ am _ the mother of your child and I need to know: how do you feel?”

He didn’t answer for several moments and when Molly began to repeat the question, he tilted his tea to drink from it, but the liquid missed his mouth and landed on his crimson button down, earning a giggle from Molly. Sherlock didn’t even seem to notice until she said something.

Molly stood, attempting to let her smile fall. “Come on. I’ll get you a new shirt.”

“Hm?” He looked down at the wet spot on his shirt. “Oh.” He set his mug back on the table. “You’ve got another shirt?”

“Mmhm.” Molly led him back to her bedroom, kneeling down at the chest of drawers next to the door. “You left a bit behind when you left London.” She opened it to reveal what seem to be maternity clothes and three button down shirts stacked atop what looked to be dark trousers. “Here-” she handed him a deep green shirt, “-this one’s my favourite.” She smiled as he took it from her.

Molly turned away from him as he unbuttoned his shirt and he raised a brow at her. “Molly, why do you feel the need to look away?”

“Do you not want some privacy?”

He chuckled. “We’ve had sex, Molly, I assure you that privacy is, at the moment, the least of my worries.” 

She turned back to him slowly, her cheeks flushing as she found herself staring at his pale chest. She averted her eyes away, the blush fading from her cheeks as she caught a glimpse at his back in the mirror behind him.

He had long lashes embedded in his pale skin, inflamed and red. She cocked her head slightly as she stepped around him, gently placing her hand on his shoulder as she examined the wounds. Sherlock sucked in a pained breath as Molly - as gently as she could - traced the areas around one of the slashes, inflamed and a deep red.

“I was captured in Serbia,” he told her.

“How long ago?”

“Five days.”

“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock,” she turned him to face her, “these should be bandaged.”

“The woman who wrapped them did them too tight.”

“So you took them off?”

He shrugged with a wince. “It was annoying.”

“Leave your shirt off.”

“Sorry?”

“I can’t let them get infected, Sherlock.” She took the green shirt from him and tossed it onto the bed as she grabbed the crimson one and headed towards the bathroom. “I’ve got some bandage wraps in here….” she opened a couple of cabinets before finding the gauze-like wraps. “It’ll be sloppy, but it should do for now.”

The gauze was probably the cheapest available. Even though it came out of a ziplock bag, Sherlock could tell she had bought it at Poundland, going by the exact off white shade and the thinness of the bandaging.

“Seeing as you’re a doctor, I’m surprise you don’t have better quality materials.”

“While I may be an M.D. I’m still not quite a ‘proper doctor’ who gets made millions of pounds.” Molly led him to the sitting room, where she made him sit in the floor. She sat criss-cross behind him and began to wrap his torso with the bandaging. “Plus, I bought these for Maisie. She likes playing doctor.”

“Ouch,” Sherlock grunted.

Molly winced in sympathy. “Sorry.” She finished of the wrapping, assuring that the gauze stuck in place.

“Still too tight.”

“Well, you’ll have to deal with it until Saturday.” Sherlock turned around to look at her and she cocked her head. “You could say ‘thanks,’ ya know.”

Sherlock hesitated before saying, “Thank you.”

“Mum mum?” A little girl’s voice sounded through the hall, faint, but Molly’s head turned towards it immediately.

“Coming, darling,” Molly called out. “Want to meet her?”

Sherlock stood, reaching a hand down to Molly. She grabbed it and he pulled her up. She smiled and gave him a thanks.

“So, is that a yes?” she asked.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”

“Why don’t you go put on your shirt, and then meet me in Maisie’s room?” Molly suggested. “She’ll get jealous that she’s not the one who got to bandage you.”

He did so, allowing Molly a few seconds to pick up her daughter and speak to her about who she was about to meet.

“He can be a bit intimidating, but Mummy used to love him very much….” Molly smiled, then whispered, “Mummy still does.” She bounced the toddler on her hip. “Just, don’t be scared, darling. You’ll love him soon enough. Just give him a chance.”

When she heard his footsteps, she turned around. He stood in the doorway, now with his dark green shirt on. Maisie made a confused noise. Sherlock gave Molly a look, asking if he could come forward. She nodded and he took a couple of steps forward.

Maisie didn’t hesitate to let out a cry, tears beginning to stream down her rosy cheeks as Molly began to bounce her on her hip once again, shushing and cooing at her. Sherlock stopped in his tracks, not daring to even take a breath.

“She can be such a fussy baby.” Molly stepped closer to him. “Hold her.”

“What?”

“Hold her,” Molly said, “she needs to know that I trust you. She needs to know that you’re good.”

Before he could refuse, Maisie was in her father’s arms, tears still staining her cheeks. Sherlock stared at her, not knowing what he was supposed to do.

“Bounce her.” Sherlock looked at Molly as if she were insane, but she said it again, “Bounce her. She loves that.”

With hesitation, he gently began bouncing her on his own hip. It took a moment, but Sherlock watched as her eyes dried and her cries stopped. He looked up at Molly to see if he was doing it right and found her smiling. With a laugh she nodded her head and he looked back down at Maisie.

“Hello,” he said, bringing a hand up with caution and wiping the drying tears from her cheeks. Maisie blinked her eyes at him, another tear escaping an eye, but he caught it. “No, no. Don’t…. Don’t do that. The whole crying thing… It’s not really my thing.”

Molly closed in the remain space between herself and the two, running her hand through Maisie’s curls. “Maisie, this is Sherlock Holmes,” she said. “This is your dad.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scenes use from The Empty Hearse. But don't worry! I put my own spin on them. Having Maisie around definitely changes the way Sherlock and Molly's day pans out. xxx  
> -OH

He watched out the window, standing with his hands in the pockets of his burgundy dressing gown. Molly stepped out of a cab approximately twelve minutes after he asked her to come over. With her child in her arms, she paid the cabbie through the driver side window, then turned to the flat as the cabbie drove off.

Usually when a person stalls at somebody’s door, something Sherlock had often seen clients do, it usually meant they were about to confront some sort of problem involving a lover. Molly’s stalling, he assumed, was due to the same sort of fear. Though the two were not lovers; however they did have a child together, one that Sherlock hadn’t known about until yesterday, and he could tell that she feared this meeting was about his involvement with his daughter.

Molly seemed to share some words of comfort with her daughter before committing to opening the door to the flat with the key Sherlock had given her last night. He listened to her footsteps, counting each one silently and telling her.

He had left the door ajar for her, so she stepped in without knocking, gently closing it behind her. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes,” he said as he turned. He began taking steps towards Molly, hands still in his pockets. “Molly. Would you…” He paused, looking down, then back up again, realigning his jaw as he thought. When he looked up again he took another step towards her. “Would you like to-”

“Have dinner?”

“-solve crimes…?”

Molly’s eyes widened, her cheeks burning. “Oh… solve-”

“Crimes.” Sherlock gave her a nod. “I need a partner in crime solving or, in this case, a couple.”

“What about John?”

He sucked in a breath, fingers coming out of his pockets to lock behind his back. “He has quite strongly suggested that he would rather not be a part of my adventures at this time.” He looked almost hurt.

“He’ll come ‘round,” Molly assured him.

“I ‘spect so,” he nodded, “but until then, I need someone. I need  _ you _ .”

Molly looked down at her daughter, then back at Sherlock. “What about Maisie?” 

One arm gestured to the sofa and Molly followed it to the sofa. She sat, sitting her daughter next to her.  She slid off her light pink backpack and set in on the floor by her feet.

Sherlock walked back to his bedroom, coming back with a light purple, stuffed rabbit. It had a light blue bow between its long, fluffy ears. Molly couldn’t hold back her smile as she watched him walk over to the sofa and sit next to his daughter, who eyeballed the rabbit. He gave what, to Molly, seemed like a nervous smile as he placed it in the girl’s hands.

“Now that I’m back, I must work,” he said, “but I’m quite sure that the appropriate thing to do would be to get to know my daughter.”  He looked back to Molly, giving her a quick smile. “We can see if she’s like her father.”

“You want us to assist you?”

“Well, you more than her,” he said, nodding to Maisie as she played with the rabbit, “but she can learn from seeing the two of us at work.”

* * *

 

“...monkey glands.” Sherlock stares at the wall above the sofa with all of his notes and pictures cluttered over the smiley face. “But enough about Professor Presbury, tell us about  _ your _ case, Mr Harcourt.”

Molly bit back a smile as Sherlock walked past her dining chair, which sat next to his chair. Maisie giggled as Molly’s smile quickly faltered. She quietly asks him, “Are you sure about this?”

“Absolutely.”

“Should I be taking notes?”

“If it makes you feel better.”

“It’s just that that’s what John says  _ he _ does - so if I’m being John-”

Sherlock sat next to her in his chair. “You’re not being John. You’re being yourself.”

Molly looked away, hiding the smile that formed across her lips. She bit her bottom lip in the attempt to stop it and bent down to pick up her daughter, who sat at her feet. When she looked back at Sherlock she caught him smiling the tiniest of smiles at the two of them, but he quickly looked back to his clients.

“Well,” Mr Harcourt said, “absolutely no one should have been able to empty that bank account other than myself and Helen.”

Sherlock looked up and down his client’s body, picking out rather expensive and noticeable, at least to him, changes in his appearance. He stood, straightening his jacket as he walked towards the man, who stood next to his wife. “Why didn’t you assume it was your wife?”

“Because I’ve always had total faith in her.”

“No - it’s because  _ you _ emptied it.” Molly mouthed a  _ what _ as Sherlock began to point to each thing he noticed about Mr Harcourt. “Weightloss. Hair dye. Botox. Affair.” He whipped a card out of his jacket and held it out to Mrs Harcourt, who took it slowly, her jaw dropped as she looked from the detective to her husband. “Lawyer. Next!”

“God, you’re brilliant.” Molly hadn’t realized she said it out loud until Sherlock shot a smirk in her direction, at which point her cheeks burned and she apologized for having said anything. Sherlock, however said nothing as he ushered the couple out of the room. 

  * ******•** **•**



“This one’s got us all baffled.” Detective Inspector Lestrade ripped the crime scene tape from the door. 

Sherlock’s brows bounced as he shot Molly a look. “Hmm, I don’t doubt it.”

Lestrade ignored him, opening the door and leading the three down a set of stairs into a dusty room built out of concrete. The DI turned on the only lights in the room, one regular scene lamp and several ultraviolet lamps. The sides of the room were cluttered with metal bars, broken wooden crates, and folded cardboard boxes, but in front of the centre of the back wall sat a desk upon which sat an expensive looking wine glass and a glass water pitcher. On the desk’s chair sat a skeleton in a Victorian era-styled suit, it’s arm stretched across the desktop.  

Sherlock exchanged a furrow-browed look with Molly, who held her baby closer to her chest, as if that could disguise the fact that she were in the same room as a real skeleton. Lestrade stood to the right side of the desk, nearly against the wall, as Sherlock stepped to the front of it. He took a wallet for tools from his coat, opening it on the table and taking out a magnifying glass and a pair of tweezers.

He looked up the skeleton’s sleeved arm with the magnifying glass smelling at it. He smelled some sort of wood…. Pine? ...Spruce? No, cedar. He could smell the mothballs on the clothes, fresh. New. He sniffed again. 

Carbon particulates. This skeleton had been in fire recently. It smelled strongly of smoke and it wasn’t just the London smog. 

Sherlock stood straight, and Molly looked up at him from the notepad that she was struggling to write in as she held Maisie. “What is it?” she asked. He took out his phone, raising it as he attempted to get service. “You’re onto something, aren’t you?”

“Hmm, maybe.” He took out his magnifying glass again, then whispered. “Shut up, John.”

Molly furrowed her brows, cocking her head in the slightest. “What?”

He looked back at her, completely unaware of what he’d said. “Hm? Nothing.” He moved to the other side of the skeleton and bent over it, his face close to its shoulder as he searched it.

Lestrade bent down towards Sherlock, quietly asking, “This going to be your new arrangement, is it?”

He shrugged, picking something off the sleeve with his tweezers. “Just giving it a go.”

“Right.” Lestrade nodded. “So, John?”

Sherlock stood, shaking his head. “Not really in the picture anymore.” He attempted to walk past the detective, but Lestrade stopped him.

“And the kid?”

Sherlock hesitated, racking his brain for a lie to tell, at least as a placeholder until he could completely understand the situation himself, but he couldn’t think of something. He decided on the truth. “Mine.”

Lestrade’s eyes widened, his lips parting in shock as he looked from Sherlock to Molly and back again. “Wait, what? Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“You two?”

Molly couldn’t hear them speak, but she sensed they were speaking about her. She cocked her head. “Sorry?”

“Nothing, Molly,” Sherlock said, turning back to Lestrade. “Yes, is that completely difficult for you to wrap your head around?” He pushed past Lestrade walking back towards Molly. 

“For you?” Lestrade’s brows were furrowed, but he let out a weak laugh. “Yes.” 

There was a rumbling and the three adults looked up as dust began to fall from the cracked ceiling. Molly looked  to Sherlock. “Trains?”

He looked to her, then dusted the dust from Maisie’s hair, earning a smile from her mother. “Trains.” He returned to the desk, kneeling in front of it. He noticed that the fabric of the suit was faded, but only on one side. The sun only hit one part of it for a long period of time, then. Which way was it facing? He put his fingertips together in front of his lips.

“Erh, Greg, could you…?” Molly asked, looking down at Maisie.

“Oh, right. Yeah, sure.” He took the toddler from her mother’s arms and watched as she walked to the skeleton’s right side, beginning to examine the bone. “Male, forty to fifty…” She looked to Sherlock, realising she hadn’t asked his permission to take a look. “Oh, sorry, did you want to-”

“Uh, no, please,” he politely gestured to the skeleton, “be my guest.” She gave him a tiny smile as she returned to the body, being startled just a second later as he grumbled. “Shut up!” 

She looked up to Lestrade, who shrugged. Maisie was starting to whine softly. He began bouncing her on his side. Molly mouthed an apology to him, but he shrugged it off as she went back to work examining to body alongside Sherlock.

She shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“What doesn’t?” Lestrade asked, taking a step closer to the two.

“This skeleton,” Molly said as Sherlock blew a cloud of dust from the desk, “it can’t be anymore than s-”

“Six months old,” Sherlock said with her, opening a hidden compartment in the side of the desk. He took out a dusty book and blew another cloud from its leather cover. He showed it to Molly, whose jaw dropped as she read the inscription in the leather.

“Wow!” she smiled as Sherlock dropped it onto the desktop, sending another cloud of dust flying. 

Lestrade leaned over it, attempting to lean Maisie away from the dust cloud as he did. “ _ How I Did It _ by Jack the Ripper?”

“Mmh-hmm,” Sherlock hummed as he put his tools back into their case.

Molly was in awe, shaking her head. “That’s impossible.”

He looked up at her, the corner of his lips twitching. “Welcome to my world.” Lestrade was silently laughing through his giddy smile and Sherlock mumbled another, “Shut up,” swatting at his head as if a gnat had been whizzing amongst his curls.

He tucked the tool case into his coat. “I won’t insult your intelligence by explaining it to you.”

“No, please,” Lestrade said as Molly took Maisie back and Sherlock began heading towards the exit, “insult away.”

He stopped sighed, swatting at his head again as he turned. “T-th-the corpse is-is… six months old. It’s dressed in a shoddy Victorian outfit from a museum. It’s been displayed on a dummy for many years in a case facing southeast judging from the fading of the fabric.” He took his phone out of his pocket and unlocked it. “It was sold off in a fire damage sale a week ago.” He flashed the screen at Lestrade, who was scratching his head.

“So the whole thing was a fake?”

“Yes.”

Lestrade sucked in a breath. “Looked so promising.”

Sherlock was nearly through where they entered. “Facile.”

Molly’s brows were furrowed, and she looked down at her notepad, which Maisie was attempting to take from her. “Why would someone go to all that trouble?”

“Why indeed, John?”

Molly looked over at Lestrade, who gave her a sympathetic smile, and then looked back down at her notepad, which she struggle to shove into her coat pocket. 

“Is there something going on?”

Molly looked back at Lestrade, brows raised now. “What?”

He looked towards the entry, then back at Molly. “Between you two. Is there something I’ve missed?”

She let out a weak, somewhat sad laugh as she shook her head. “No. Erh, not at all.”

“But…” He glanced at Maisie, and Molly sighed.

“It’s not like that,” she closed her eyes. “It  _ wasn’t _ like that.”

“Then what was it?”

She blushed, refusing to look at her friend. “It was just a one-off thing….”

* * *

 

_ “I’ve got to leave, Molly.” _

_ Molly looked up from her book. “What?” _

_ Sherlock turned around, sitting beside her on the bed. “I told you before everything happened. I told you I’d have to leave London.” _

_ “I thought you meant after a couple of months, once you figured out the plan exactly.” She place a bookmark in her spot and sat the book on the nightstand. _

_ He shook his head. “There’s no time for that, Molly. I know where I’m going first, so there’s that. Then Mycroft is helping me plan the rest and is assisting me with transportation and any arrangements I need.” _

_ Molly could feel tears stinging her eyes as she realised what this meant. “When will you be back?” _

_ He sighed. “For all I know, Molly, I may never come back.” He cocked his head as a tear slid down her cheek. He caught it with his finger as it reached her chin. _

_ She turned her head away, wiping at her cheek with the sleeve of her jumper. “Sorry… I just….” She sniffed and Sherlock pace two fingers at her jaw, turning her head back towards him. _

_ He shook his head. “Nothing to be sorry for.” _

_ She looked at him long and hard. If he said he had to leave, he’d be gone by tomorrow. And if he said he may not come back, he could be dead in a matter of months.  _

_ For the longest time Molly had looked at him and wondered what it would be like to kiss him - kiss the clever detective with his silly hat. She wanted to run her fingers through his magnificent, dark curls and feel his lips against hers. It was completely possible that she would never see him again and if she didn’t, then she’d never get to live out the longest running dream she’d ever had. _

_ So she did it. _

_ Before he could say anything Molly glanced down at his lips, leaning forward and pressing hers to his. His whole body stiffened, his eyes widening as he looked down her nose. After a second though, he allowed himself to close his eyes and lean into her kiss.  _

_ Usually if his heart sped up to the rhythm of a hummingbird’s wings he was in danger, and he supposed he was, in a way, in danger at that moment. What risks did just kissing Molly have? Well, instead of noticing that she had run into John in the shop today and decided not to tell him about it or the fact that she hadn’t finished blow drying her hair, or that the book she was reading was given to her by her great aunt when she was younger, Sherlock began noticing other things - things that were so little and dull - things that would shock nobody. For example…. _

_ Molly was still crying. Tears escaped her ducts and slid down her cheeks onto his. Her hair, which was falling into her face, smelled of coconut and banana, a strange combination that he fancied more than he’d like to admit. Her lips were soft and tasted of vanilla bean tea, which was growing cold on the nightstand next to her book as their kiss grew longer. One of her hands climbed up his back and tangled itself in his curls, gripping them tightly and, again, he liked it more than he cared to admit.  _

_ His own hands fell to her waist as he turned towards her more. They rested beneath her pyjama top, cold against her warm skin and she sighed at his touch. He chuckled against her lips. _

_ She pulled away, though she left hardly any space between their lips. Their noses rested against each other as they took deep breaths. _

_ Molly smiled as Sherlock wiped a tear from her cheekbone. “What are we doing?" _

_ “Hmm,” he hummed, “No idea.” And with that said, he kissed her again, this time with more passion than before. Molly couldn’t help but kiss him back, but with every second it hit her harder, what was happening. _

_ When one of Sherlock hands had slid up her back, resting at the top of her spine, she asked, “Are you sure?” _

_ “Are  _ you _?”He hardly paused, already knowing what her answer was.  _

_ She smiled against his lips and moved her hand from his hair to chest, beginning to unbutton the very top button of his dark purple shirt. He chuckled again, and she couldn’t help but lean him back against the bed, crawling over him. _

* * *

 

Sherlock stood at the top of the staircase, eyes closed. Occasionally, he would mutter something under his breath or he would look from side to side. Molly knew what he was doing, but Maisie was curious. She kept stretching her neck in attempts to see why he was acting so strange.

Molly set her down, watching her crawl up the stairs to where Sherlock stood. Knowing he would begin speaking soon, she took out her notepad and pen and prepared to write.

In just seconds he was speaking at the speed of light. “The journey between those stations usually takes five minutes and that journey took ten minutes. Ten minutes to get from Westminster’s Station to Saint James’s Park. So I’m going to need maps. Lots of maps. Older maps, all the maps.” He looked down to see Maisie tugging at the leg of his trousers with her free hand. His lips twitched as he bent down and picked her up.

Molly nodded, stepping out of the way as Sherlock began to walk down the stairs. “Right.”

“Fancy some chips?”

Molly paused. “What?”

“I know a fantastic fish shop just off the Marylebone Road, the owner always gives me extra portions.”

Molly began to follow down the steps. “Did you get him off a murder charge?” It was only half of a joke.

“No, I helped him put up some shelves.”

Molly let out a laugh that sounded more like a breath than a laugh. “Sure.” She smiled as she paused on the staircase. “Sherlock?”

“Hm?” He turned as he got to the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her.

She took a slow steps down the stairs now. “What was today about?”

“Saying thank you.”

She stopped, nearly at the bottom now. “For what?” Another step down.

“For everything you did for me.”

“It’s okay,” she said as she reached the bottom and walked passed him. “It was my pleasure.”

“No.” She stopped, turning to him. “I mean it.” He set Maisie down at their feet and she began playing with her rabbit.

“I don’t mean pleasure,” she said, shaking her head, “I mean I didn’t mind. I wanted to.”

“Moriarty slipped up, he made a mistake,” Sherlock locked eyes with her, “because the one person he thought didn’t matter at all to me was the one person that mattered the most.”

Molly felt her heart stop, then speed up as he leaned forward, placing a short kiss at the corner of her mouth, nearly on her cheek. It only lasted a second, but it felt like minutes to her.

He kept his face close to hers as he said, “You made it all possible….”

She blushed, looking down at her trainers. “It was nothing, really.”

“Molly Hooper, you helped save me.”

She smiled and shook her head. “You didn’t need me, Sherlock.”

He pulled back, locking eyes with her again, insuring that she understood that he meant every word he said. “Yes…. I did.”

Maisie stood and took a couple of wobbly steps closer to Molly, her arms and bunny stretched upwards. Molly bent down and picked her up, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“Chips?” she suggested.

He smiled. “This way.” He held the door open for the two, then lead them down the road toward a busy road where he fetched them a cab to the fish shop. 


	4. Chapter 4

Masie fussed until Molly let her sit next to Sherlock, between him and the wall. Sherlock seemed to bounce between stiffness and surprisingly relaxed. 

“She’s really taken to liking you,” said Molly, handing her daughter a plastic container of dry cereal. “It usually takes several days for her to get used to somebody new.”

He looked passed her, staring out the window behind her. “Perhaps she senses who I am. Children are smarter than people think.” He pauses. “Still not too smart.”

Molly ignored the possible insult to her child, well, to  _ all _ children. There was silence until the waiter brought the drinks, a Coke Zero for Molly, chocolate milk for Maisie, and coffee for Sherlock. They ordered their food, speaking as the waiter took their menus.

“Do you usually drink coffee this late?” Molly asked him.

“Sometimes,” he said.

“Does it not keep you up?”

“It does.”

She raised a brow. “Then why do you do it?”

“Never sleep much on a case, it slows me down.”

“And years ago you told me you don’t eat on a case. Digestion slows you down.” She handed her menu to the waiter. “And here we are, out for chips.” The waiter walked off, promising to be back in a few minutes.

“To be fair, I’ve not eaten much in the past two years,” he said. “I think I’ll let myself slide this once.”

That quieted Molly. She’d nearly forgotten the hell he’d been through, God knows how. She looked down, biting her lip. When she looked up, he was finally looking at her.

She tilted her head at him. “You okay?”

“You keep asking me that.”

“I want to know.”

“Why?”

“Because I do, Sherlock.”

“Are  _ you _ okay?”

She hesitated, lips parted. She hadn’t expected him to ask. “I … I don’t….” She trailed off, sighing. “No, Sherlock. I’m not.” She moved a strand of loose hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “Truth is, Sherlock, I’ve been a single mother for nearly two years. It’s been … hard. I had a couple of boyfriends, but whenever they found out about Maisie they would leave. They always did…. But that’s not the point. What I’m trying to say, is ... I’ve survived two years without your help. I can do this on my own, but it’s difficult…. Sherlock, I must know something.”

“What’s that?”

“How do you feel about this?  _ Her? _ ”

He furrowed his brows, looking from Maisie to Molly. “What do you mean?”

“Are you going to be in her life?”

It took him a minute before he answered and Molly feared he wouldn’t ever answer. What was merely a minute seemed like an eternity.

“Molly,” he said slowly, almost cautiously, “I’m busy… always am-”

“I know I just-”

“-but I’ll be there for Maisie and you as much as I can.”

“-I thought I should ask both for Maisie and myse- what?”

He gave a nod. “I can go ahead and assure you that I will be a horrible father, just because I’m, well,  _ me _ , but I promise you I will be there for you. Both of you.”

“You will?”

“I will.” He gave her the tiniest of smiles. “Promise.”

Molly couldn’t help but smile back at him. It quickly faltered, though, as Maisie began to fuss. While Molly immediately figured out what was wrong, she wanted to see how long it would take for the great Sherlock Holmes to figure it out. He looked to Molly, expecting her to fix the problem, but she shook her head. Her brows raised and gestured to the whining child.

“Right,” he said, turning to the toddler, who wiped her eyes as she let out some more whines. “Okay … okay. Come here.” He lifted Maisie onto his lap and did as Molly had told him the previous night, bouncing her as he shushed and cooed to the best of his ability. Molly giggled as he gave up on the bouncing and leaned her against his chest, patting her back as if he were trying to burp her, but she continued to cry, He was about to give up when he spotted the purple rabbit on the floor. “Oh, hold on.” He reached a long arm down to pick it up and held it in front of her.

Maisie sniffed when she saw it, but quickly cheered up as she snatched to rabbit from his hands, hugging it to her chest as she cried, “Ginny!”

Sherlock furrowed his brows. “Ginny?”

“That’s her bunny’s name,” Molly informed him, “Or at least that’s what’s stitched onto her bum.”

“So, that was it, then?” he asked, looking at the rabbit with distaste, “It was the rabbit.”

“Yep.”

“I solved the case?”

Molly laughed. “Case?”

“What would John call this one?” Sherlock wondered, leaning back in the booth. “The Mewling Maisie?”

“You’re really not good at the naming thing, are you?”

He pouted for a quick moment. “I rather liked it.”

She smiled, letting out a soft laugh just as the waiter brought the three their food. “Well,” she said once he’d wandered off, “that was rather quick, wasn’t it?”

“Mmh.” He nodded, taking a fish finger and biting the end off it. Steam creeped out of the half in his hand and he only seemed a little phased by the heat. He continued speaking once he swallowed. “The owner has the staff put me first. I’ve told him before that the royal treatment isn’t necessary, but he insists.”

“And you just helped him put up some shelves?”

“May have also led the police away from him when he was a suspect for the sexual assault of a fourteen year old girl.”

Molly gasped. “He didn’t do it did he?”

“‘Course he didn’t!” Sherlock waved his half-a-fish finger in the air as he shook his head. “No, no. He was a couple of blocks away violating a restraining order.” Molly raised her brows. “Still went to jail, but he was back quicker than he would have had he sexually assaulted a child.”

Just as he pushed the last of the fish finger into his mouth a woman pushed past their waiter, apologizing without looking back, and ran straight to their booth. She looked familiar to Molly…. Red coat, long pink scarf. Her blonde hair cut below her chin and tucked behind her ears.

“Sherlock.” She said, her brows creasing her forehead as she went to sit next to Molly, who scooted down the booth to the wall. She knew who this was now. It was John’s girlfriend!

She hadn’t seen her all that often, only a couple of times. Molly’s G.P. worked at the same office as them, so the last time she went John had introduced her to her. She’d also picked John up the last time he and Molly went for coffee, as they often did since Sherlock’s “death.” 

“Mary?” Sherlock said, “What’s wrong?”

“I think someone’s got John.” Mary looked to Molly, giving her an apologetic smile. “Oh, hey. Sorry about this.”

Molly shook her head. “No, it’s … fine.”

Mary whipped her phone from her pocket, biting a glove off of her hand so she could unlock it. “At first I thought it was just a Bible thing, you know spam, but it’s not. It’s a skip-code.” She stood, practically tossing her phone at Sherlock.

He scanned over the text on her screen. Molly knew she shouldn’t try to look, shouldn’t be nosy, but she caught herself trying to see over the phone, which was tilted just so she couldn’t see the screen.

“First word, then every third,” he observed as he scanned the message. “Save John Watson.” He paused, then his eyes grew wide as he nearly knocked Mary over, throwing thirty pounds onto the table. “Now!”

“Sherlock! Where are you going?” Molly asked as he ran off.

“Church!” He called back to her just as he reached the shop’s door.

“Church?” Molly furrowed her brows as she looked back at her daughter, who seemed stunned at her father’s vanishing.

“He come back?” she asked.

“I don’t think so. Not tonight, darling.”

* * *

 

 **Sorry about that.** **  
** **SH**

 

Molly stretched as she leaned over, looking at the clock on her bedside. She let out a sigh as she began typing a text.

 

**It’s 3:45, Sherlock.**

 

His response was nearly immediate.

 

**I’ve been busy.**

**SH**

 

She sat up in the bed, fluffing the pillow against the headboard so she could sit comfortably.

 

**I’m exhausted….**

 

He didn’t answer immediately, as he usually did, so she texted again.

 

**How’s John?**

 

**A bit singed.**

**SH**

**Sorry?**

 

**Talk later. For now sleep.**

**SH**

**Baker Street. 8:30am.**

**SH**

* * *

 

Molly arrived at Baker Street with not a single idea as to what she was called there for, but she believed she had discovered the reason when Sherlock began reading from a newspaper article as she settled down in John’s chair.

 

**A SECRET HOLMES**

by Janette Owen

**_Sherlock Holmes hides his daughter during the two years the world thought he was dead._ **

The world famous detective spent two years out of the spotlight after faking his own suicide, but what was he doing in those years of silence? Mr James Windibank spills the details of his experience meeting the daughter of Sherlock Holmes. Could it be that his suicide had something to do with protecting his daughter? Or was it to protect England from the ‘consulting criminal’ James Moriarty? Read more on page 7.

 

Sherlock folded the paper, throwing it onto the kitchen counter next to a jar of formalin preserved eyeballs. “According to  _ The Sun _ I am a #SneakyBastard.” Molly stared at Sherlock with furrowed brows, attempting to read his stoic expression, but every movement he had resembled his usual hyper yet emotionless tendencies. 

“How are we feeling about this?” she asked him.

“We?”

“You.”

“Ah,” he nodded, sitting down in his chair and steepling his fingertips in front of his mouth. 

He sat silently for several minutes and Molly checked the watch she didn’t have on before saying. “Got an answer?”

“Nope.” He popped the ‘p.’

“Right.” She took a deep breath, deciding that she may not get an answer to that question. She changed the subject rather than pressing the matter. “Tell me about John, then.”

“Hm?”

“Last night?”

“Oh,” Sherlock waved a hand in the air, as if he was over what seemed to have been the end of the world just the night before, “John got stuck in a bonfire. He’s fine.”

Molly’s eyes widened so much that they felt as if they dried up immediately. “Sorry?”

“Basically,” Sherlock said, “John’s back in the game. It’s a beautiful morning.” He showed her a smile that seemed like an honest mixture of sarcasm and pure joy.  

“Why is it that you’ve asked us here, then?” Molly asked. “You’ve got John back. You don’t need me anymore.”

Maisie sat in the floor, playing with Ginny the bunny. Before Molly had walked up the steps to where Sherlock lives, Mrs Hudson stopped her, gifting Maisie a sweater that she had knitted for the bunny. Ginny now wore the pastel blue sweater, which was a bit tight around her and too long. 

Sherlock watched Maisie from his chair. “Strange.”

“Hm?”

“Maisie is our genetic creation.”

Molly rolled her eyes, a blush rising to her cheeks. “I did just ask you a question, Sherlock.”

He ignored her. “We came together and accidentally created life, life that  _ you _ kept the truth about a secret from everyone who met her. Life that has completely changed your life and, I suppose, mine now as well.”

“Well, it wasn’t easy,” Molly said as she looked to her daughter. “Sherlock, I had to lie to all of my family and friends. John and I went for coffee sometimes, and finding a babysitter you can trust isn’t all that easy. I took her with me most of the time and, well, it was really hard. He always mentioned how she looked a lot like you.”

“What would you tell him?”

“I made up a boyfriend,” she admitted with a hint of laughter in her voice. “His name was Tom.”

“Such a generic name,” Sherlock complained.

“What was I supposed to name him?” She smirked. “William Sherlock Scott?”

“Couldn’t have used my common name.”

“Fine…. William  _ Atticus _ Scott?”

He let out a loose shrug with his shoulders. “Could’ve left out Atticus.”

Maisie tugged at Molly’s trouser leg, pointing to her mouth with her free hand as she said, “Mum Mum.”

Molly reached into her bag and pulled out a container of dry cereal. She pulled off the dark blue lid and handed it to her daughter, who continued to point at her mouth, even as she popped a few pieces of cereal into her mouth.

“Oh, sorry Maisie.” She reached into her bag once again brought out a purple sippy cup, which she handed to Maisie, who immediately began drinking from it. Molly ran her hand through the toddler’s curls with a smile.

“Does she talk much?”

Molly shook her head. “She can talk, I’ve heard her say plenty of words, but she chooses to stay quiet.”

“Well, I can promise you she didn’t get that from me.”

“Trust me, I can tell.”

There was a knock at the door and Sherlock stood, straightening his jacket as he headed towards the door. Molly picked Maisie up, setting her in her lap as she watched Sherlock open the door to an elderly couple who smiled brightly at him.

“Sherlock!” The woman cried with joy, pulling him down into a hug and kissing his cheek. To Molly’s surprise he allowed it, even though he didn’t seem entirely pleased with the contact.

“Please.” He gestured them inside, shutting the door behind him. 

The woman in the black coat, a more feminine style than Sherlock’s but still similar to his, spotted Molly first. “Sherlock, who's this?”

He gestured Molly over with his head, curls bouncing, and she stood up, setting Maisie’s cup on the side table, and walked over to the three. Maisie gripped the front of Molly’s jumper, hiding her face in her mother’s chest, weary in front of the two strangers.

“Mum, Dad,” Sherlock said, “meet Molly Louise Hooper and Maisie Bronwyn Hooper-Holmes.”

His father furrowed his brows while his mother stood, shocked. “Holmes?”

Sherlock looked at Maisie, a smile nearly teasing his lips. “My daughter.”

Mr and Mrs Holmes looked to each other, the former’s jaw dropping in shock. Mrs Holmes looked about ready to ground her grown son.

“How old is she?” she asked gently.

“A year and nine months,” Molly said, “Nearly at two.”

“And in two years, you’ve yet to tell us?”

Sherlock sighed. “Had I known myself I would have told you. Fuss about it to Mycroft. He knew.”

“Mike?” she let out a frustrated breath. “Of all people…”

“Margaret.” Mr Holmes said, resting a hand on his wife’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” she gave the two a slight - only partially disingenuous - smile, “I’m not a fan of family secrets.” Her smile became more genuine. “I should be happy. Never thought I’d have a grandchild…. Right then, how’d this happen?”

Molly’s cheeks burned as Sherlock said, “Well, after faking my death records as you two know she did, Molly invited me to stay with her in order to gather my bearings for the long road ahead of us and one night, one thing led to another and-”

“No!” both of his parents shouted at once, eyes wide.

Molly hid  her face in one barely free hand and Maisie looked confused, so she just babbled at the strangers. “Sherlock, please….”

“That’s not quite what I meant,” his mother said.

Mr Holmes stepped forward. “What your mother means i, I’m sure, is: Are you two together?”

“No,” the two said together.

“Were you together?” asked Mrs Holmes.

Molly felt ashamed as she shook her head. “You see, we were never  _ together _ , but i-in a way we - we were, erh....”

“Close,” Sherlock finished for her, “Those last few weeks anyways.”

* * *

 

_ “Right then. You can take the spare bedroom.” Molly hung her coat on the rack beside the door, then turned to see that Sherlock was already in the hall, entering a room. Her room. She followed him in to find him examining the space. _

_ “This’ll do,” he said, falling back onto her bed. _

_ “This is my bedroom.” He ignored her and she took a step forward. “Sherlock?” _

_ “Hm?” _

_ “This is my bedroom.” _

_ “Fantastic observation, Molly.” _

_ Molly folded her arms across her chest. “I said you can have the spare bedroom.” Her voice wasn’t as demanding as she had wanted it to be.  _

_ “I heard.” _

_ She waited a moment. “You going to use it?” _

_ “Nope.” He popped the ‘p.’ _

_ “Why not?” _

_ “Need the space.” _

_ Molly sighed. “And do you expect me to sleep in the spare bedroom?” _

_ “Of course not, Molly. You take up about as much space as a mouse.” She didn’t know whether she should be offended or not. _

* * *

 

Why didn’t you just come back to us, Will?” Mrs Holmes asked.

“I needed to wait until London settled after my suicide before leaving,” he explained, “Plus, I didn’t have time for unnecessary travels.”

“He didn’t stay long,” Molly chimed in, “just about two weeks.”

“Two weeks and four days.”

“And even in those two and a half weeks, he was almost always at work; on the computer, on the phone with Mycroft, sketching plans and going over ideas in his head over and over again.”

“I see,” Mrs Holmes said, taking a pause. “Still, Sherlock. You could have called.”

“She worries!” Mr Holmes told him.

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I fake my death.” Sherlock smiled. “Now then, about these tickets to  Les Misérables…”

* * *

 

At first, Molly feared that Sherlock’s parents would be rather uptight, and Mrs Holmes was at first, but the elderly couple softened and eventually spoke like any other elderly couple she had met. She was fascinated with the little things they conversed about, especially when they had a son who was driven mad by the small talk. He sat in his chair, fingers folded in front of his lips. Molly assumed he was thinking of a case, so when she was actually able to get a word in, she kept up the conversation with the two.

“And she had the rubber ducky down her blouse?” Molly asked with a laugh, smiling at Mrs Holmes as she told her story.

“Shoved it down her bra, if you could believe it! I mean, I’d have hidden it too, but down my blouse? In public? Not the way I’d put it at all. Silly woman. Anyway, it was then I first noticed it was missing…. I said, ‘Have you checked down the back of the sofa?’”

Sherlock’s head fell forwards a bit, like he were about to fall asleep, but then his eyes opened and he let out an obnoxiously loud sigh. His parents didn’t seem to notice, though.

Molly couldn’t help but smile a bit. “And did he?”

Mrs Holmes looked to her husband. “He’s  _ always _ losing things down the back of the sofa, aren’t you dear?”

“‘Fraid so.”

Sherlock looked to Molly, then glared at the kitchen. Molly shook her head.

Mrs Holmes continued. “Keys, small change, sweeties. Especially his glasses.”

“Glasses,” Mr Holmes repeated.

She sighed, shaking her head slowly. “Blooming thing. I said, ‘Why don’t you get a chain - wear ‘em round your neck?’ And he says, ‘What like Larry Grayson?”

“Larry Grayson.” They say it nearly simultaneously. Molly smiled and laughed.

Sherlock jumped out of his chair and buttoned his jacket as he walked towards where his parents sat on the sofa. “So did you find it eventually, your lottery ticket?” He stepped onto the coffee table and then onto the sofa between his parents. 

His father stared up at him. His mother leaned out of the way. “Well, yes, thank goodness. We caught the coach on time after all. We managed to see, erh, St. Paul’s, the Tower … but they weren’t letting anyone into Parliament.” Sherlock stopped flicking through the papers on his wall and looked down at her, frowning. “Some big debate going on.

Suddenly, the door opened and Sherlock turned. He looked surprised to see John standing at the door, who first spotted Molly. He furrowed his brows, then turned to see Sherlock and his parents.

“John!” Sherlock said.

“Sorry - You’re busy.”

Sherlock hopped off of the sofa and pulled his mother up off of the sofa. “Er, no-no-no, they were just leaving.”

“Oh, were we?” she asked, looking around the sitting room.

“Yes.”

John shook his head. “No, if you’ve got a case.”

“No,” Sherlock gave him a smile as he pushed his mother towards the door, “not a case, no-no-no… Go. ‘Bye.”

“Yeah, well, we’re here til’ Saturday, remember.”

“Yes, great, wonderful. Just get out.”

“Well, give us a ring.”

“Very nice, yes, good. Get  _ out _ .” He finally gets the couple out onto the landing and attempts to close the door, but it stops before it can and he sticks his head out, whispering to his parents.

John walked over to her. “Hey, Molly.”

“John, hi.” She smiled at him.

He looked around the room, spotting Maisie on the floor in front of the blocked fireplace. “And hullo Maisie.” He smiled, kneeling in front of her. She gave him a tiny smile, but scooted back from him a little. He laughed. “Still not used to me, huh?”

Finally, the door closed and Sherlock had his back pressed against it, as if he were afraid his mother would try and bust the door down. “Sorry about that.”

“No, it’s fine,” John said. “Clients?”

Sherlock hesitated, looking down at his shoes, then up at John again. “Just my parents.”

“Your parents?”

“In town for a few days.”

“ _ Your _ parents?”

“Mycroft promised to take them to a matinee of  _ Les Mis _ . Tried to talk  _ me _ into doing it.” 

“ _ Those _ were  _ your  _ parents?” John rushed to the window, looking out it.

“Yes.”

“Well,” John turned to Sherlock again, chuckled for a second, then looked back out the window, “That is not what I…”

“What?”

“I-I mean, they’re just so….” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. “...ordinary.”

Sherlock hesitated, then smiled. “It’s a cross I have to bare.”

John chuckled, then took a few slow steps. He looked at Molly, his smile faltering a little. “Did  _ they _ know too?”

“Hm?” Sherlock refused to look at him, instead walking to Maisie. He knelt down in front of her and gave her a poke in the arm in a friendly, yet incredibly awkward way.

“That you spent the last two years playing hide and seek.”

“...Maybe.” He stood.

“Ah! So  _ that’s _ why they weren’t at the funeral!”

Sherlock spun around, throwing his hands in the air. “Sorry. Sorry again!” Maisie let out a soft cry in her fright, and Sherlock’s face softened as she looked back at the toddler, who was now crawling to her mother.

Molly picked her up. “Shh. It’s okay darling.”

Sherlock lowered his head for a moment, letting Molly quiet Maisie, then locked eyes with John. “Sorry.” John drew in a deep breath and looked away from the detective. As he let the breath out slowly. “See you’ve shaved it off, then.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t working for me.”

“Mm, I’m glad.”

“What, you didn’t like it?”

Sherlock smiled at him. “No. I prefer my doctors clean-shaven.”

Molly let out a giggle.

“That’s not a sentence you hear every day.”

Sherlock took a moment, then snapped his fingers at his side. “Before we talk about last night, John, there’s something I should tell you.”

“More secrets then?”

“Would it make you feel better if it was a secret kept from me as well?”

“Perhaps.”

“Well, you’ll be pleased then.” Sherlock walked over to Molly. The toddler in her lap stared up at him, still frightened from a moment ago, but Sherlock gave her a smile and she smiled back. “John, it is to my understanding that you and Maisie here haven’t been properly introduced.”

“What do you mean?” he asked. “I’ve seen her plenty of times.”

“But have you been properly introduced?”

John gave him a nod. “I think so.”

“That is where you are wrong.” He made a gesture, drawing all of John’s attention to the toddler. “John, I want you to meet Maisie Bronwyn Hooper-Holmes.”

John’s eyes widened and he looked from the child to Molly to Sherlock to Molly and back to Sherlock again. “Sorry, but did you say-”

“Hooper-Holmes,” Sherlock nodded. “Maisie Bronwyn Hooper-Holmes.” John still seemed confused, so Sherlock sighed. “My … daughter.”


	5. Chapter 5

John looked stunned at first, but the stun slowly turned to shock and then quickly into anger as he processed exactly what he’d just heard. It was almost like when Sherlock is on buffer mode, but this lasted nowhere near as long as his buffering does.

Sherlock looked frighten, like he feared he’d be attacked again, a fear that Molly shared, but he stood tall, never looking away from John. Molly held Maisie tightly in her arms as Sherlock stepped away from the two and cautiously toward his friend.

“John,” he said, careful, “listen. I know you are-”

“A daughter? You have a daughter!” John nearly shouted. Maisie let out a wail and buried her face in her mother’s chest. “ _ You? _ ”

“John, please-”

“No, don’t you start.” John pointed a finger at Sherlock, who, for the first time, took a step back in his fear. Being the arsehole he was he usually wouldn’t be afraid to irritate somebody enough to attack him, - hell, he did it just for the fun of it - but with his injuries from Serbia, he really wasn’t ready to be attacked again.

John continued shouting. “You turn up out of  _ nowhere _ after letting me think you were dead for _ two years _ and now you turn up not only perfectly alive and healthy, but  _ with a child? _ ” He stepped forward, his hand gesticulating toward the pathologist. “ _ Molly’s _ child?”

Molly shook her head. “John, listen. He-”

“And what are you two, then?” He asked, ignoring her. “What do you do, Sherlock? Pop ‘round her flat every once and awhile for a nice shag? What is it? Your new alternative to getting high?” He stepped forward again and Sherlock took another step back. “Do you have any idea how cruel that is? Have you any idea how she feels about y-”

“John!” Molly was standing now, Maisie sitting at her feet, clinging to her legs. “He didn’t know.”

His expression softened as he lowered his gaze. “Sorry, I…. What do you mean, he didn’t know?”

She pulled her leg away from the toddler and walked over to John. “I mean, I didn’t tell him about her.”

His brows furrowed and he looked up at her. “A secret? You kept a secret? From  _ him _ ?” He looked amazed, though his eyes were still angry. “Why wouldn’t you tell him? Why  _ didn’t _ you?”

“You’ve no idea what stress he was already undergoing, John. And to be fair,” Molly turned to Sherlock, “I tried dropping you hints. About my  _ sickness _ .”

* * *

 

_           Dearest Sherlock, _

_ Not that it will compare to being held captive in Bolivia, but I’ve been facing my own struggles as well. I’m still not over my sickness and, to be honest, I doubt I will be anytime soon.  _

_ Every morning I awake at about 4:45 am where I tend to vomit. When I say every morning, I mean every morning. Always at nearly the same time. And once I’ve gotten sick I can’t go back to sleep, and you know I don’t get home until late. So, I hardly get any sleep now.  _ _ I know you say I should take a few sick days from work, but the thing is, they aren’t going to help. My doctor tells me that this is something I’m just going to have to ride out and deal with for, well, however long it lasts.  _

_ I can’t eat, either. Well, not properly. I eat more than I usually do but still not nearly enough. So  _ ~~_ we don’t _ ~~ _ I don’t get what I’m supposed to be getting and it’s all do to the stress. I’m worried. About  _ you _. I’m worried about you, Sherlock. _

_ Please, please, please try and be more careful. I know you’re just one man, but if there is anyway for you to stay alive, please try and focus on that. _

_                Molly xxx _

* * *

 

Molly sighed as she turned back to John. “I know, he usually gets  _ everything _ , but in his defense he was being held hostage on and off. There were other things on his mind, other more plausible things in his mind.”

John’s brows furrowed and he glanced back at Sherlock. “Hostage?”

“Couple of times,” Sherlock added lugubriously. 

John was still bitter, of course, but his look had softened with this news and he suddenly had a much kinder, friendlier demeanor. He sniffed, his nose crinkling.

Sherlock stepped forward. “John, I  _ am _ sorry.”

Another sniff. “Right, then. Tell me about this active terrorist cell.”

* * *

 

_ Do you hear the people sing? Singin’ the song of angry men.  _

Mycroft was desperate, he was  _ pleading _ with his brother, something he never did. “Sherlock,  _ please _ . I  _ beg _ of you. You can take over at the interval.

Sherlock couldn’t help but smirk as he buttoned his jacket with one hand, holding his phone with the other. “Oh, I’m sorry, brother dear, but you made a promise. There is  _ nothing _ I can do to help.”

“But you don’t understand the pain of it – the horror!”

He grinned as he ended the call. He turned as he slipped the phone into his pocket, glancing at John as he entered the room.

“Come on,” John said, “You’ll have to go down. They want the story.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he walked passed his friend. “In a minute.”

The two walk into the sitting room where Mary sat on the sofa, Mrs Hudson chatting with her in a nearby chair, and Greg Lestrade sat in John’s chair, holding a glass of champagne just as Mary did. Sherlock grabbed a bottle of champagne and popped it. He picked up a glass and carried the glass and bottle to the coffee table, kneeling beside it and pouring the glass.

“Oh, I’m really pleased, Mary,” Mrs Hudson said, “Have you set a date?”

“Er, well we thought May,” Mary said, smiling as she looked down at her champagne glass.

“Oh! Spring wedding!”

“Yeah, well, once we’ve actually got engaged.” She narrowed her eyes at Sherlock, raising her brows at him.

John did the same. “Yeah.”

Mary had the hint of a smile on her lips as she stared at the detective. “We were interrupted last time.”

John nodded, pouring a glass. “Yeah.”

Sherlock smiled at her smugly, as if he were proud of being a disturbance. To be honest, he was. He loved being annoying, though he’d never admit it.

Greg smiled, raising his glass in a toast. “Well, I can’t wait.” John smiled at him, setting his glass down.

Sherlock walked over to the window, looking down at the journalists just in time to spot a woman and a toddler gently pushing their way through the crowd. He smiled down as they reached the door and disappeared into 221b, a journalist attempting to follow after her before she shut the door on him.

“You will be there, Sherlock?”

“Weddings…” he turned ‘round to her, “not really my thing.” He winked and she smiled at him.

The door opened then and Molly stepped in wearing a bright orange dress with a rainbow knit cardigan, a lovely smile on her lips, Maisie clinging to her side as she looked around at all the people in the sitting room. “Hello everyone!”

John gave her a smile. “Hey, Molly.”

She looked down at her daughter, who clung to her cardigan. “Maisie, this is everyone. Why don’t you say hello?” She gave the girl an encouraging smile.

Maisie blushed, attempting to hide her face in the cardigan now. Her tiny “Hi” was followed by a wave of “Aww!”s and cooes. Molly set her down with a smile and patted her curly hair. And when Maisie peeked over at the group of people and spotted Sherlock she took off running to him, wrapping her little arms around his legs. It caught him by surprise and people awed and cooed again. Mrs Hudson looked as if she were about to explode from the cuteness.

“Yes, erh, hello Maisie Bronwyn.” He patted her hair, taken aback once again by her resemblance to him. The strangest thing, he thought, was the fact that her hair was the exact same texture as his. Her hair had the same thick, tight ringlets as his did when he was a child.

“She seems to really like you, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson said.

“Well, yes, I’d hope so.”

“Hm?”

John furrowed his brows at the older woman. “Mrs Hudson, you know she’s his daughter, yeah?”

Mrs Hudson looked to be near a heart attack. “His  _ what? _ ”

“Right, then. Come along John.” Somehow, Sherlock had managed to get out of Maisie’s hold on him and was now hurrying to the door.

“Wait! Sherlock!”

“Later, Mrs Hudson.”

“Sherlock Holmes, you never tell me anything!”

“Bye, Mrs Hudson!” John laughed, shaking his head as he closed the door behind him. 

When Mrs Hudson turned to Molly she feared that she’d be shouted at as well, but to her surprise Mrs Hudson was grinning, her anger suddenly turning to playfulness.

“Well,” she said, “it looks like you got what you wanted, didn’t you, dear?” She winked at Molly.  _ Winked _ .

Greg stood, walking over to the completely flushed Molly and holding up the bottle that Sherlock had opened. “Champagne?”

Molly swallowed, giving him a little nod. She felt like she needed to crawl in a hole and hide. “Good idea.”

* * *

 

Molly entered the sitting room and Sherlock looked up at her, a question in his brow. She nodded, her voice low as she said, “She’s asleep.”

He gave a nod and returned his fingers to their steepled position at his lips. “Good.”

“Sorry to take your bed, but if you don’t mind sleeping with Maisie then I’ll take the sofa.”

“Not necessary.” He stood, heading over to his laptop and throwing up the top, turning it on.  “I’ve got work to do.”

“Work?”

“Finding a case.”

“Ah.” She walked over to where he sat, resting a hand on the back of his chair as she leaned over his shoulder and glanced at his screen. She smiled. “John’s blog?”

“It’s where most of our cases come from,” he told her. “The good ones, anyways.”

“You’re not in the inbox, Sherlock. You’re on a story….  _ The Great Game _ ?”

“Always frustrates me, that case.” He shook his head. “Now that Moriarty’s gone, his network, really, it’s nice to view him as a story, a fairytale.” He leaned back and she dropped her hand to her side, looking down at him. “ _ A pretty Grimm one too _ .” He clicked out of the blog post and went to John’s inbox, which had a little red seven next to it.

Molly pointed to one of the emails. “What about that one?”

“‘My son-in-law’s puppy disappeared?’”

“No, but look…” she pulled another chair up next to his and moved put her finger over the mousepad, clicking on the email. “Blood, patches of fur left in the dining room on the table, ‘round the broken window. Break in?”

“Yes, boring.”

She scrolled, then clicked on another with a giggle. “‘ _ Kermie’s gone missing, Mr Holmes. I can’t find him anywhere! Muah! Miss Piggy _ .’”

With a roll of his eyes he began typing a response, reading each word he typed aloud. “ _ At the end of my bath. He says ‘hi.’” _

Molly raised a brow. “Lovely. You  _ do _ have a sense of humour.”

“As ever.” He shut the laptop, frustrated. “Molly, I  _ need  _ a case!”

“You’ll find one. I know you will.” She turned to him, setting her hand over his. Apparently the champagne had made her a teensy bit braver than usual, not that she was complaining, or noticing. 

She fully expected him to pull his hand away from hers, but he didn’t. Instead he just sighed. “Need to find a way to occupy myself.”

“Like?”

He stood, her hand falling off of his and onto her lap. He rushed to the fireplace, lifting the skull from the mantel. He shook his head as he sat it back down, then rushed to the sofa where he knelt down and reached under the sofa, pulling out a Moroccan slipper from underneath it and turning it upside down over his palm. Nothing. He shoved the slipper back under the sofa and then collapsed onto it with a growl.

Molly stood, furrowing a brow. “What? What is it?”

He turned over, facing her direction. “Cigarettes. Mrs Hudson’s thrown them out.”

“Sherlock…”

“I’d say she hid them, but she’s had no reason to hide them from a dead man.”

“Sherlock.”

He rolled his eyes. “I know.  _ I know _ . Cigarettes, bad for me. Cancer. Death. Blah. I lasted two and a half years without cigarettes, I can continue on, but Molly, I’m  _ bored _ .”

“Then watch telly or play your violin. Sherlock, do something less  _ destructive _ .” She walked over to the sofa, raising a brow at him. He moved his legs back against the back of the sofa, allowing her to sit with him.

“Are you working in the morning?”

She shook her head. “No, I took a later shift.” Molly looked down at him, smiling as he closed his eyes and steepled his fingers in front of his lips. She loved it when he did that. “Thank you…. For letting us stay here tonight, I mean.”

“Well, I couldn’t exactly let you drive home on a couple of drinkies. Besides, I know you don’t like other people driving with Maisie in the car.”

“She’s your daughter, Sherlock. I would have made an exception for you.”

“You’d have been uneasy the whole ride seeing as you don’t know how I drive.”

She shrugged. “Okay, yeah, I would have.”

One corner of his mouth twitched up. “I’m rather good though.”

“Hm?”

“Driving.”

“Oh,” she nodded. “I’m sure you are, it’s just, you know….”

“Overprotective?”

“Well, she hasn’t really grown up with a father. I’ve had to double my protectiveness to make up for it.” When his eyes opened and he looked to her. His eyes bore into hers, apologising. She sighed. “I’m sorry, it’s just.... Sherlock it was hard. I was a single mother, pregnant without a husband, without even a boyfriend. You know how that looks to people.” Her eyes stung and she closed her eyes in the attempt to stop any tears from escaping. “I got nearly no help with her. Only my best friend, Meena, helped me. Toby was some help, emotionally anyways. Cats don’t really have any skills when it comes to babysitting.”

Sherlock sat up, his legs still behind her. “Molly, you know kids aren’t my natural milieu, but I promise you, if I could have been here I would have tried, done what I could.”

She opened her eyes again and brushed a tear from her cheek. “I know.” She looked down. Apparently she’d taken his hand again. She pulled it away. “Sorry I-”

He took it back, intertwining his fingers with hers. Molly’s heart fluttered, her stomach fluttered. She smiled at him and he returned it, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek with his free hand and tucked it behind her ear.

“You should sleep,” he told her.

“But I’m not even–” she yawned, “–tired….”

“Right, of course not.” He leaned forward, grabbing a thin navy blue blanket which had been folded on the coffee table. He set it on Molly’s lap and she didn’t hesitate to unfold it, tucking her legs under her and draping the blanket over her shoulders.

“Sleep.”

Molly shook her head. “Maisie actually fell asleep and I’m spending the night with a friend for the first time in ages.” She smiled. “Let’s have a chat.”

“You’ll fall asleep eventually.”

“So, I say we should have a chat before I do.”

He attempted to look uninterested. “About?”

“I kept her a secret for two years,” she said, “Haven’t you got any questions?”

He thought on this for a few minutes. He didn’t really know of much, nor did he know much of what he’s supposed to know. He knew her birthday, that was the most important thing to know, right?

Finally, he thought of something that he was sure that a parent was supposed to know about their child. “What was her first word? That’s quite a large milestone, yes?”

Molly smiled as she reflected on the memory. “Mum mum.”

“When was that?”

“She was ten months old…. Her second word was at eleven months old.” She giggled. “I took her to Meena’s so John and I could go out for coffee and when we arrived she ran to Meena and cheered ‘Meanie!’ over and over again! She still calls her Meanie to this day.” 

Sherlock found himself smiling. He was still trying to get used to the idea of having a daughter, so he liked hearing stories of these little moments he’d missed in his years of absence. He also really regretted not being there for the two. He couldn’t help that he had to go away. Had he known she was pregnant he would have taken the risk of visiting her every once and awhile or at least Facetiming her or Skyping, something. He wasn’t good with children, but he was a gentleman and he wouldn’t just leave the mother of his child.

Molly lay her head against his shoulder and his entire body stiffened beneath her. She didn’t seem to notice, though. Champagne. 

Molly never got drunk, not in front of Sherlock anyways, but anytime she had a drink she was just slightly more confident than usual, which explains her taking his hand and leaning against him.

He finally relaxed his body as he said, “I’ve never made a vow before.” Her eyes flickered up to him sleepily. “After tonight, though, I will make my second and final vow in May.”

“And tonight you’re making your first?”

“Yes?”

“What’s your very first vow, then?”

He took her small hand in both of his, locking eyes with her, assuring her that he was telling her the whole truth and nothing but the truth. “Molly Hooper, starting right now I am going to start being there for you. You  _ and _ Maisie Bronwyn. Whenever you need me, whenever she needs me, I swear to be here. I’m just a text away.”

“You never answer your texts.”

“From now on, for you, I will.”

“You will?”

“Promise.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead and she closed her eyes. 

And with his vow said she fell asleep with a smile on her lips and a warmth in her heart.


	6. Chapter 6

Molly woke up alone in a different room than she had fallen asleep in. Maisie was no longer in bed, she could be heard babbling down the hallway.

Honestly, Molly didn’t want to get up. It felt so nice being able to relax and stay in bed, not being bothered by Maisie. Plus, Sherlock’s bed was pretty comfortable and Molly wouldn’t get the opportunity to wake up in his bed everyday, so she wanted to savour the feeling.

She lay in bed for a few more minutes, pulling the duvet tighter around her and, though she’d never admit it to anybody except maybe Meena, smelling him in the sheets. She wasn’t meaning to, she wasn’t whiffing up his scent, but she definitely couldn’t complain when every breath she took smelled faintly of beech trees (which she knew by heart due to the trees she grew up with) and something like almonds. The smells were lovely and comforting and _him_. And while she would have loved to stay there all day she heard a few words shared between her daughter and Sherlock that made her nearly skyrocket out of bed.

“What the smell?”

“That, Maisie Bronwyn, is formaldehyde.”

“Foam aldie hi?”

“ _Formaldehyde_.”

“Foam owie hide!”

Molly rushed into the kitchen, relieved to see that Sherlock was taking a carton of eggs out of the fridge rather than blowtorching a tongue or microwaving two year old kidney stones.

Sherlock didn’t turn to her, instead he grabbed a pan from the cupboard and set it on the cooker, opening the carton of eggs as he spoke. “Goodmorning Molly. Sleep well?”

“Quite. Whatcha doing?”

“Breakfast,” he said, cracking two eggs into the pan at once. “That’s what fathers do, yes?”

Maisie cocked her head. “Fah-ter?”

“Father, yeah.” Molly picked her up. “I told you, darling. That’s your daddy.”

“Daddy?”

“Mmhm.” Molly kissed her on the cheek and set her down again.

“How many would you like, Molly?”

“Oh, Sherlock, you don’t have to-”

“I insist. How many?”

Molly smiled, brushing her hair behind an ear. “Two should be fine, thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Molly walked to the cooker, leaning against the counter next to it as Sherlock added another egg into the pan. “Why are you being so….”

He raised a brow. “Hm?”

“Lovely?”

He seemed amused, the corners of his lips twitching upwards as he looked over at her. “I rather thought I was always lovely.”

She raised a skeptical brow. “Really?”

“Nope. I know I’m an arsehole.”

“Sherlock!”

“Hm?”

“Child!” She gestured to Maisie, who was now babbling to Ginny the Rabbit. Sherlock resumed making the eggs, scrambling them and adding turkey, smirk still on his lips.

Molly took a seat at the centre table, watching him as Maisie began making Ginny climb her leg. She rest her chin on the palm of her hand, her elbow on the table, ignoring the climbing purple rabbit. After a couple minutes, Sherlock separated the eggs onto two plates.

“Not eating?”

He shook his head. “Later.” He picked up the plates and headed to the sitting room, where he set them on the dining table which, somehow, wasn’t a complete mess of photographs and case files. There was a strange photograph of Harry Houdini hiding under Sherlock’s laptop, but Molly ignored it. Maybe Sherlock had a thing for shirtless, chained up men that she was unaware of. That was fine, of course. It’s all good. Whatever … floats his boat.

Molly set Maisie in the chair in front of the plate with the least amount of eggs, then sat in the other chair. Maisie attempted to tuck in, but Molly stopped her. “Careful darling. Give it a minute to cool.” She smiled at Sherlock. “Thanks for breakfast. For everything.”

He let out a sniff of a laugh. “You’ve nothing to thank me for, but I’ve got everything to thank _you_ for.”

“You know, lovely as this is, you don’t need to keep saying thanks. I told you, it was no trouble.” She took a bite. They weren’t the best eggs ever, and definitely still too hot for Maisie, but she still appreciated the effort and enjoyed them.

“No need to lie Molly. I know it was difficult. And not just you helping me. After too.”

She sighed. “I’m not going to lie, these last two years have been absolute hell.” She looked to her daughter and began smiling, her doe eyes gleaming. “But as hard as it was, well, she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Sherlock sat a hand on her shoulder and she looked up at him. He said nothing. He didn’t know what to say. So instead he gave her a smile, one that he wasn’t aware of what purpose it was supposed to have, and rubbed a circle over her furthest shoulder in what he hoped was comforting.

“Mum Mum. Eat now?”

“Yes, darling. Go on.”

Maisie took the fork and began to eat like she hadn’t had anything in days.

Molly laughed, shaking her head. “Well, she certainly didn’t inherit my appetite, nor yours.”

“Hm, I blame Mycroft.”

“Has he got an appetite.”

“Bigger than you’d think.”

Molly took another couple of bites. It felt nice, waking up to Maisie and her father, Sherlock making breakfast. It almost felt like a … family.

She knew she shouldn’t think like that. She couldn’t let herself believe that she and Sherlock were part of a real proper family. She knew that the moment she got hope would be the moment he was sent away again, whether it be by his own will or for something he couldn’t help. Either way, she’d be end up alone as she always did.

“Molly?” His voice snapped her out of her thought. “What’s wrong?”

She let out a shaky laugh, shaking her head. “Nothing, it’s just … nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“Mum mum sad.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows at the toddler, kneeling down next to Molly and looking up at her just in time to see a tear escape her closed eyes. It trailed down her cheek as she smiled a small, sad smile. “Molly, tell me what’s wrong.”

She sighed, setting her fork down as she turned and looked down at Sherlock. “It’s just … this feels ...nice.”

“What does?”

“Me and Maisie and … you. Together at last.”

He cocked his head. “Well, then. How is that sad?”

“We’re together at last, but are we really?”

“What do you mean?”

She shook her head and picked up her fork again, poking at her eggs. “Nevermind. Really, it’s nothing. It’s-” she let out a shaky laugh again, “-stupid. Silly.”

He seemed to think for a moment, looking over her, deducing her. This wasn’t the first time she had wondered what he saw when he looked at her. She didn’t care about the big things he saw, emotions, demeanors. Dispositions were easy to read, even for people like her. She wanted to know the itty bitty details that no one else could see. Could he tell that she didn’t wash her hair yesterday morning like she usually did? Could he tell that the slight tremor in her hand was from not taking her Depakote for three days? She set her fork down with a sigh.

Sherlock took her hands in his, something that, despite him doing it last night, seemed out of character for him. “I have a proposition, Molly.”

She cocked her head. “Hm?”

“You aren’t working tomorrow,” he said, “let’s do something together.”

“Together?”

“Just you and me.”

“What about Maisie.”

“Perhaps Meena would be able to watch her?” he suggested, “If not, I’m sure John and Mary would love to babysit.”

Molly hesitated, still trying to understand his proposal. “Hold on, are you asking me-”

“Out.”

“-out?” Her breath caught when he finished her sentence with her. She could feel her eyes widen as she stared at him.

“Yes, I am,” he said. “Trying to, anyways. This is me trying, Molly.”

“But w-what would we do?”

“Whatever you’d like,” he thought a moment. “Dinner? People do that, don’t they?”

She couldn’t keep the tiny smile off her face as she laughed, nodding. “Yes. Yes they do.”

“Well, if that’s what people do, let’s do it. What do you say?”

She bit her lip to try and keep her smile from widening, giving him a little nod. His lips twitched into a smirk. And, of course, to make the moment even lovelier, Maisie threw her fork across the room where it landed on the coffee table with a clang. She let out a cry as Molly directed her attention away from Sherlock to her daughter. “Darling, what’s wrong?”

“Hungry, hungry.”

“You _just_ ate.”

“Hungry!”

Molly sighed. “Well, we do _not_ throw things, even if we are hungry.”

“Daddy does.”

It startled him, her calling him that, but what startled him even more was the look that Molly was giving him. He looked about the room, as if the reason she was looking at him was floating in the air nearby. “What?”

“ _Influence_ , Sherlock!”

“It was just a knife.”

“A knife!”

He shrugged. “I was bored, she was bored. You were asleep. I was providing entertainment.”

“Well, if you could _not_ , that would be great.” Molly checked Sherlock’s watch, then sighed. “I’ve only got three hours before work. I should probably go, get ready. Get Maisie ready for the sitter.” She stood up and gave Sherlock a smile as he stood too. “Thank you, by the way. For breakfast and letting us stay and all that. Would you like some help cleaning up?”

He shook his head. “Erh, no. I’ve got it.”

“Right then,” she picked Maisie up from the chair, holding her on her hip, “See you tomorrow, then?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll text you details.” He gave his daughter a smile and leaned down, kissing her hair. “Goodbye Maisie Bronwyn.”

* * *

 

Molly sat at her favourite bench, sandwich in hand as Meena (who was, as always, absolutely stunning with her light brown skin and shoulder-length, silky black hair) arrive with two styrofoam cups of coffee. She took a seat next to Molly and handed her one of the cups.

“Now then,” she said, “what’s so important that you decided to waste your lunch hour on lil’ ol’ me?”

Molly took in a deep breath, let it out. “Meena, I’m going to tell you something and you’re going to be super angry that I didn’t tell you before, but just … allow me a moment to explain, okay?”

A brow raised and Meena frowned, her head cocking slightly. “What’s wrong?”

She took in a deep breath, holding it in longer this time. “I’ve been lying to you, Meena. For awhile.”

“About?”

“Maisie.”

“Maisie?”

“Well…” Molly bit her lip as she thought for a few seconds. “I kind of _had_ to lie. About her father, specifically.”

Meena shook her head, more confused than angry. Her dark, delicate brows furrowed together and her head tilted to the side. “You told me it was just a stupid night with some boyfriend you’d been hiding. Tom?”

“That was … a cover up.” Molly sipped her coffee. “Maisie’s father is…” she hesitated, bracing herself for her best friend’s rage, “Sherlock.”

“Sherlock!”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Holmes!”

Molly gave a nod as she refused to make eye contact. She honestly couldn’t tell if Meena was angry or entirely too delighted. She took another sip. “Listen, Meena, with everything that happened, it _had_ to be a secret.”

“With his suicide?”

“ _False_ suicide.”

“Were you scared of how she’d be treated?” Meena asked, brushing a strand of silky hair behind her ear.

“No. Well, you’ve known he’s been alive for a few days. You’re probably wondering how he did it, survived.”

She nodded. “Of course I am. Isn’t everybody?”

“I … helped him.”

“Helped him?”

Molly nodded, staring down at her untouched sandwich, taking a bite before explaining everything to Meena, besides the nitty gritty details of how Sherlock faked his death. She told Meena her role in it, but the rest of it, while she _did_ know it, wasn’t her story to tell. Meena listened quietly, engaged in the story, completely sucked in; however she still seemed confused when Molly finished the story.

“Fascinating as that was,” Meena said, “you’ve left out one thing….” Molly’s brows knitted together. “You had sex? With Sherlock!”

Molly flushed, attempting to hide behind her coffee cup as she watched Meena grin at her. “Yes…”

Meena clapped her hand (and coffee cup) together, careful not to crush the cup in her excitement. “My god! Still can’t believe you didn’t tell me! _Me_!”

“I couldn’t tell you that we had sex two weeks after he supposedly died!”

“Well, no, but you could have told me it was _just before_ he died.”

Molly shook her head with a scoff. “Meena, you know how long pregnancies last. You could have done the math. _That_ is why I didn’t tell you it was before. You would have figured it out.”

Meena sighed. “That’s true, I suppose. Still, you could have trusted me to keep your secret.”

Molly gave her a small smile. “I know I could have. I’ve been able to trust you with _everything_ since Uni. But I swore to secrecy.”

“Understood … now, tell me, are you two together?

“Oh, no!” Molly shook her head, another blush rising to her cheeks. “N-no, we aren’t.”

Meena cocked her head. “Well, why not?”

“Hm?”

“Why aren’t you together? He’s back now, alive and well. You have a child. Everything’s sorted, innit?”

“No, not really.” Molly sighed and took another bite, nearing the end of her sandwich and her lunch hour. “Meena, this isn’t really his thing, relationships and romance.”

Meena pouted, trying to understand. “But Molls, you’ve never, to my knowledge anyways, had sex unless it was romantic. I don’t mean to pry, and I know you like him, but how was this time different?”

“For starters: it was possible he was about to die. You can’t possibly even _begin_ to imagine the hell he went through.” She winced. The memory of him telling her he may not come back still hurt. “He explained to me that he possibly wouldn’t survive and, well, I kissed him. I’m sure you can work out the rest … it’s not really necessary to, erh, paint that picture for you.”

“But, it wasn’t romantic?”

“More of a ‘this is the last chance I’ll have to do this so why not?’ On his part anyways.”

“You don’t think he did it because he likes you?”

Molly sighed. “He’s Sherlock Holmes. God knows what his silly little heart feels, especially ‘cause his brain’s so determined to keep it all locked up.

“Lock what up?”

“His feelings.”

“Molly, you can’t possibly believe that he doesn’t feel anything.”

“‘Course I don’t,” Molly said. “Like I said, he _locks them up_ . Meena, I’ve known him since I was doing my externship in my last years of Uni. In all of these years that I’ve known him, he’s never had a girlfriend, nor has he seemed to _want_ one. The only love I’ve seen from him were directed toward his work and John Watson, but from our little … experience … I believe I can assure you that he is in fact not gay.”

“So, it was good then?”

“What was?”

“The sex.”

“Meena!” Molly’s cheeks were nearly the colour of the cherries on her cardigan and burning. “Could we just forget about the sex. Just for a moment?”

“Fine,” Meena rolled her eyes playfully. “I’m just saying, you had sex with _Sherlock Holmes_.”

“ _Meena_.”

“Okay, okay!” She held her hands, and her coffee cup, up in surrender. “Please, do change the subject.”

Molly contemplated telling Meena about her plans for the next night, deciding she might as well. She had already kept enough secrets from her best friend. “We’re having dinner.”

“You’re _what_?”

“Tomorrow night. Alone. Could you-”

“Yes! I’ll take Maisie, you have dinner.” Meena looked nearly as excited as Molly felt. “Where are you eating?”

“No idea. But, Meena, don’t get so excited. This doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

“No, it doesn’t,” she agreed. “But it’s a start.” She smiled and Molly couldn’t help but return the smile.


	7. Chapter 7

After about an hour of trying on dresses for Meena (and Maisie, though she said “pretty Mum Mum” with every outfit) Molly decided on a solid yellow, swing style dress. Meena put her hair into a bun, held up by a white bow patterned with yellow tulips. 

“You look gorgeous, Molls.”

“Pretty Mum Mum!”

Molly twisted from side to side in front of the floor length mirror, watching as her dress swish. “You don’t think it’s too much, do you?”

“Not at all.”

Molly touched the bow. “Or too informal.”

“Molls, it’s  _ you _ .” She got up from where she had been sitting on Molly’s bed and walked over to her, grabbing her by the shoulders and forcing her to look her in the eyes. “That’s all it needs to be.  _ You _ .”

She gave a small, nervous smile. “How do you  _ always _ know what to say?”

“Because I’m brilliant.” Meena grinned, letting go of Molly and standing back. “Now then, go! He’s waiting in the cab downstairs.”

“Wait, what?” Molly rushed to the window, looking out to see a black cab sitting against the curb below. “For how long?”

“Only about five minutes. I’ve been texting him.”

“Meena! We can’t keep him waiting.” She rushed to the bed, kissing her daughter’s mahogany curls. “Bye bye darling.”

“Bye bye Mum Mum.”

“Right then,” Meena said, “Go. Be amazing!”

“Pretty Mum Mum!”

And with that Molly left, practically running out of her flat, Toby letting out a startled shriek as she nearly ran him over, only stopping and walking when she got to the door of the flat. She smoothed out her dress and then opened the door as if she had been completely calm this whole time and wasn’t completely dying on the inside.

When she opened the door, Sherlock stepped out of the cab, holding the door open for her. She gave him a nervous smile and walked to the cab, thanking him as she got in and slid to the other side and buckled up. When Sherlock got in and closed the door, the cab took off, its driver already knowing where to go.

“Sorry for the wait,” Molly said as soon as the cab began moving. “Meena had my phone. She didn’t tell me you’d arrived.”

“I assumed just as much.”

“You did?”

“She texts nothing like you do.”

She gave a slight nod, looking out the window momentarily before looking back to the detective. “You’ve still not told me where we’re going.”

“It’s a surprise.”

“No kidding.”

She smirked. “I visited this place the other night. I was kicked out soon after I arrived, but after explaining my situation at the time the owner is allowing me in again.”

“You’ve been back in London for a week and you’ve already been kicked out of somewhere?” She shook her head with a smile. “Sherlock Holmes, you are a handful.”

“Proudly so.”

Molly decided to hide her smile by watching out the window again. Her smile soon faltered as a feeling creeped over her, one that made her fear she was leaving something important behind. She brushed it off as a sort of separation anxiety, this being the first time she’s been out without Maisie for what seemed like ages.

It took about about 20 minutes to get to The Daffodil, a restaurant inside the Landmark London on the Marylebone Road. Upon entering, Sherlock asked the host how his baby was and he responded, “Very well, Mr Holmes. Though I still don’t understand how you did it,” as he escorted the two to their reserved table at the furthest end of the restaurant, a couple of tables away from other guests.

“It’s lovely, Sherlock,” Molly said, looking around at the red and black checkered floor, stained glass windows, and wide curving staircase in the dimly lit restaurant.

“Yes, I hope so,” he said as he pulled out a chair for her to sit in, “That  _ is _ why I chose it.”

A waitress set down two menus in front of the two and lit the white candlestick on the centre on the table.. “Good evening. My name is Josephine and I’ll be your server tonight. Now then, can I start you off with any wine? Champagne?”

“What would you like, Molly?”

“My choice?”

“Of course.”

Molly looked over her choices as that nagging feeling that she’d left something at home returned. After glancing over the price of a fine wine, her eyes widened as she realized what she forgot. She looked up at the waitress and gave a slightly faltering smile. “Erh, could you give me a minute?” 

“Of course.” The waitress left and checked on the nearest couple, a few tables down and Molly looked to Sherlock, eyes wide with panic, smile completely faltered.

He furrowed his brows, seeming a bit startled by the intense change in her demeanor. “What’s wrong?”

“I was in such a rush, I left my purse in my bedroom,” she said. “My wallet, my phone, everything is in there.” 

“Don’t know what you’d need your wallet for, but if I’ve got my mobile, so if you need it-”

“ _ My wallet? _ How am I supposed to pay?”

Sherlock let out a short chuckle. “Now, Molly, surely you know I’m paying.”

“You don’t have to, Sherlock.”

“I want to,” he said. “Besides, I asked you out. John says I’m supposed to pay if I do that.”

Molly let out something between laugh and a scoff. “Have you seen these prices? We could’ve at least split the tab or-”

“Molly, I  _ want _ to. It’s my pleasure, truly.” He gave her a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. She couldn’t help but bow her head to hide the involuntary smile that tugged at her lips. 

“Now then,” he continues, “pick something. Whatever you’d like.”

“It’s lovely of you, Sherlock, truly, but the prices-”

“I am well aware of the expense, Molly, but I assure I’ve got enough to pay for whatever you’d like.”

The waitress came back to the table just as Molly opened her mouth to argue with him. “Have we decided yet.”

Molly glanced down at the menu after Sherlock raised a brow at her. Of course, she had been eyeing a lovely merlot. If Sherlock truly insisted…. 

“How about the Terra Antica Merlot?” She looked up at Sherlock for approval and he gave the waitress a smile that Molly knew was only because he knew she’d want him to be polite.

“Perfect. Bottle of it.”

Josephine smiled back at him. “Alright. I’ll be back momentarily.” She walked off, writing the merlot order on her notepad.

“Are you actually eating tonight?” asked Molly, looking up at him from the menu.

“Of course I am.”

She looked back down at the menu, eyes widening at the choices. There were so many options, most of which Molly had never even heard of before.

“So, how do we do this? Order, I mean.”

“I believe we order a starter and salad first.”

“There’s so many choices….” She was thankful for the description. With names like those on the menu, Molly needed to order based on ingredients. “Have you ever had any of these starters?”

“No, never.” He squinted at the menu, as if that could help him decipher what each of the items were. “Perhaps this gloucester souffle? Seems like it could be good.”

Molly could feel her mouth begin to water. “Cheese … chive sauce…. Sounds heavenly.” 

“Shall that be our starter then?”

“If you’re alright with it.”

“Of course I am. I suggested it.”

Molly let out a little giggle. “Right. So, I guess we order our salads at the same time?”

“I should think so.” Sherlock nodded. “I’m going with a caesar.”

Molly looked over her choices. There weren’t any particularly spectacular sounding salads, not that salads were usually spectacular, so she decided to try a quinoa salad.

Once Josephine had taken the starter and salad orders, dropping off a bottle of Merlot and two wine glasses which she filled for the two, Molly and Sherlock looked over the menu once again.

After reading through the menu two, three times over, Molly settled on the fillet of sea bass and Sherlock decided on the fillet steak au poivre. They ordered when Josephine came back with the starter and salads.

“Here,” Sherlock said, “would you like some souffle?” 

“I’d love some.”

Sherlock took a knife and cut a slice of the souffle, then used the knife and his fork to place it on Molly’s starter plate. She smiled and thanked him as he placed a slice onto his plate.

“Well,” Sherlock said, looking up at her, “what are you waiting for? Tuck in.”

* * *

 

Somehow, Sherlock managed to convince Molly that it would be nice to walk home, so she found herself walking down the streets of London, shivering in the night.

Sherlock slipped his coat over her shoulders, but she shook her head. “No, you don’t need to be cold.”

“I have two layers of sleeves. You don’t.”

He opened up the coat, allowing her to slip her arms in with only a slight reluctance. “‘Suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. I’m always right.”

She scoffed, smiling as she shook her head. They walked along the streets quietly, arm in arm. Molly felt stuffed from their meal. She was quite certain that the sea bass she had ate was the best fish she had ever had.

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

“Hm?”

“For everything. For tonight.” She looked up at him, smiling as they walked. “I’ve had a lovely time.”

“It was awkward, wasn’t it?”

She giggled. “It was, yeah.” She looked ahead again as they turned a corner. “I still had a lovely time, though.”

“When was the last time you had a night out? Without Maisie.”

“Before she was conceived.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

He paused. “So, your boyfriends, you never went out with them?”

“I called them boyfriends, but…” she paused, “I only went on a couple of dates. And Maisie was with me for all of them. Meena used to work a swing shift, so she couldn’t watch Maisie and, well, I didn’t trust anybody else with her. So, I had to bring her with me everywhere except work. During work, she stayed at a creche.” 

“You’ve never had a break, then.”

“Never.”

A few moments passed before Sherlock broke the silence. “I never got a break either.”

Molly looked back up at him. His features had hardened as he thought back to his years abroad. She said nothing, just waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. Instead, he looked up at the dark sky and Molly followed his gaze.

“Sad, isn’t it?” he asked.

“What?”

“The city’s lights drown out the stars. We can hardly see the universe’s natural lighting.”

Molly glanced at him once again. “I didn’t think you’d care about that.”

“Whether I care or not doesn’t determine whether or not I appreciate natural wonders…. Beauty-” he looked down at her “is a construct. It is often based on one’s childhood role models and influences.”

Molly giggle softly. “And were the stars your influence?”

He scoffed and looked forward. “Of course not. Don’t be silly. My father. He was more is a nature enthusiast rather than a scholar like my mother. When we were younger, he often took Mycroft and I camping at Burnbake in Dorset. We’d lay under the stars and he would point to each constellation, naming them just as he would do in the daytime with birds and plants…. So, to this day, I couldn’t care less about birds or plants or the subject at hand, stars, but I do appreciate their beauty.”

The way he spoke didn’t much resemble the Sherlock who left London over two years before. Now, he was somehow softer. His usual bumptious manner was controlled, though it did slip out sometimes. In short, he seemed as if he cared more than he had before. Maybe he did. Molly wasn’t sure. She hoped he was okay, though, which, going by how friendly he was being, seemed rather unlikely.

* * *

 

The walk lasted about an hour and a half before they ended up on Molly’s doorstep. Molly slipped off the Belstaff and handed it back to Sherlock, feeling the hairs on her arms stand as goose bumps formed across her skin.

“Thank you for dinner,” she said.

“It was my pleasure.”

“Do you want to say hi to Maisie before you leave? She may be asleep, but if you’d like-”

“I think I’ll leave this night between the two of us. I’ll drop by tomorrow to see her, but until then….” He pressed the buzzer to Molly’s flat, then leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead. She closed her eyes, biting back a smile as she resisted the urge to lean into his lips. When he pulled back, he opened the door to the flats and Molly furrowed her brows.

“But, Meena hasn’t even spoken yet.”

“Oh, no. Why would she?”

“What do you mean?”

“She opened it right when I buzzed her. She knows its us. She’s been eavesdropping.”

“Oh, hush up!” Meena whispered through the speaker. “You’ll spoil the magic!”

He ignored her. “Goodnight, Molly Hooper.”

She smiled. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”


	8. Chapter 8

“So, there’s a note this time?” Sherlock steepled his fingers beneath his chin, furrowing his brows and glancing down at Masie, who tugged at the leg of his neat black trousers.

Molly swooped down and snatched her away, shooting Sherlock an apologetic smile as she walked off with their child. “Sorry.” Sherlock said nothing. His brows raised to John urging him to continue.

John cleared his throat. “Well, no. Not exactly,” he said, “You know, originally I wasn’t going to tell you - didn’t think it was anything but spam, these pictures of pearls. Yeah, I did think that the same picture everyday was a bit strange, but I just thought it spam. Today’s pearl did came a bit differently though, which is why I’m here…. Mary?”

Sherlock furrowed a brow as Mary reached into her purse, pulling out a white envelope, seal already broken. She leaned forward in the client chair, handing it to him. He immediately began studying the envelope, looking it over before pouring its contents out.

The pearl rolled in the palm of Sherlock’s hand. He cocked his head at its gleaming opalescent, a smirk breaking free across his lips as he let out a soft chuckle. 

Molly’s eyes widened. “Woah….”

He glanced over at her and then back at John. “And this is the only packaged pearl you’ve received?”

“As of now? Yeah.”

“And another thing,” Mary took John’s phone from the side table next to his chair. She unlocked it and handed it to Sherlock. “I know John said it was the same picture every day, but he was wrong. It’s the same location, different pearls.”

“Wait, how can you tell? They all look the same.”

“To you, darling. But to him-”

“Mary’s right.” Sherlock tucked the pearl back into the envelop and set it on an armrest. He took his phone from his pocket, fingers tapping away at the screen as he searched through the news and texted the various detective inspector

“What are you doing?” Molly asked.

“Research.” His fingers paused and his lips twitched into a smirk. “Go on to work, John. Bring your laptop to Baker Street in the morning.”

“What’s your plan?” John asked.

“He’s going to trace the emails,” Mary said already standing.

“But surely, if he’s a thief, he won’t just lead you to his hideout.”

“No, but he’ll lead us somewhere.” Sherlock stood and made his way to the door, opening it all the while still typing away at his mobile. “Bye.”

“Come on darling.” Mary was already in the doorway.

John sighed, standing up and walking toward the door. “Right, looks like I’m leaving.”

As soon as John stepped out into the hall Sherlock bumped the door shut with his hip and strode back to his chair. Molly watched as he lay back in his chair, texting away. 

She cleared her throat and he didn’t react. “Erh, Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Why am I here?”

“I don’t know, why are y- I invited you here.”

Molly closed her eyes, counted to three. “And you’ve not told me why yet.”

“Right.” He slipped his phone into his pocket as he sat up straight in his chair. He motioned to John’s chair with his head and she sat down, Maisie in her lap. Sherlock said nothing, just stared at the two of them.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Are you going to tell me why I’m here?”

He furrowed his brows. “I just did, didn’t I?”

She let out a brief laugh, shaking her head. “In your mind, perhaps. But if you’d like to say it aloud so that I hear too then that would be lovely.”

He pressed his lips into a thin line, locking eyes with her as he chose his next words carefully. Molly could tell that whatever he was about to say wasn’t something he had done often. It made her nervous. She began chewing lightly on her lower lip as she waited for him to speak.

“So,” he said, dragging out the ‘o,’ “we – you and I – went on a … date?” His lips pressed together once again and he looked to her for confirmation.

She nodded. “Yes, we did.”

“And how did you feel about said date?”

Molly furrowed her brows, cocking her head slightly. Maisie started babbling in Sherlock’s general direction, reaching a hand out towards him. Molly stood and carried Maisie to her father, who held out his arms and took her, sitting her in his lap. She reached for the envelope which held the pearl, but Molly took it quickly and rushed it to the dining table, setting it over the photo of Harry Houdini, mainly so she didn’t have to see it across the room anymore. It was beginning to creep her out. But, again, whatever floats his boat.

Sherlock was speaking the entire time she was dealing with the envelope. “I grew up with both of my parents. There was no fighting, no divorces, no abuse, nothing of the sort. I believe that that is what has shaped me into the wonderful person that I am today-” She held in a laugh, which he ignored. “And, though I haven’t particularly been wanting children I do believe that a child should, unless entirely impossible, have both parents around.”

Molly’s inner laughter came to a halt as she slowly walked over to Sherlock, one brow furrowed at him as she stopped to stand directly in front of him. “What are you saying, Sherlock?”

He looked up, locking his eyes with hers. “Molly Hooper. Would you like to do that again? Perhaps … regularly?”

Lips parted in shock as both of Molly’s brows furrowed as opposed to just the one. She blinked a few times, then took a breath. “So, you’re asking me to be your girlfriend?”

He wrinkled his nose. “That’s not a word I’d prefer to call you, but I suppose that  _ is _ what I’m implying.”

“You want  _ me _ to be  _ your _ girlfriend?”

“Could we come up with a better term, please?”

“And you want to be my  _ boyfriend _ ?”

He rolled his eyes. “Right, if you’re going to keep referring to our relationship in such childlike terms I may have to revoke my question.”

For a moment Molly was shaken from her shock with a laugh. “And what would we refer to each other as?”

“Well,” he thought a second, “can’t be certain of titles this early on, but I was thinking you could be my pathologist?”

Her brows raised. “And who are you, then? My detective?”

“God, no, that sounds too kinky. Like some old romance film that my brother secretly watches in his study. No, something else…. Perhaps your … consultant?”

“Right, yeah. Okay.” She pressed her lips together and then shook her head. “Okay, yeah, no. That’s just as bad.”

“Anyways, it’s not important,” he waved a hand, dismissing all titles, “What  _ is _ important is the question at hand. Do you accept my proposal?”

A smile tugged at Molly’s lips and she nodded. “Yes. I accept.” At this point even Sherlock’s lips began to stretch as they stared at each other in silence - well, near silence as Maisie was babbling.

“So, what now?” He asked as he set Maisie back on the ground, watching her toddle off to where Ginny the bunny sat next to the client chair.

Molly’s smile faded. She could already tell that this wasn’t going to be the easiest relationship she’d ever been in, but she hoped it would be the best. 

She pressed her lips together, cocking her head at him slightly. “I know we’ve only been together for about a minute and a half, but would it be absolutely insane if I tried to kiss you right now?”

The smirk remained on his lips. “Molly, we have had sex. I don’t think kissing should be awkward, now should it?”

Molly giggled. “That was three years ago, Sherlock. That’s why it would be awkward.”

Sherlock stood, looking down at her, locking eyes with her once again. Molly lifted a hand, held it against his cheek, thumb caressing his cheek bone. Her heart jumped in her chest and her stomach did somersaults as she stood on her tiptoes, closing her eyes as their lips brushed against each other. She pulled back, looking over his expression. She didn’t get a long glance before he leaned down and pressed their lips together again, taking her by surprise. She closed her eyes instinctively, her hand falling to his shoulder as his rested on the small of her back.

She smiled against his lips before pulling back opening her eyes slowly, beaming up at him. She let out a breath of a laugh, then rested her forehead against his chest. He hesitated, then rest his chin on top of her head. 

“Mum Mum.” Molly looked down to see her daughter tugging at her trouser leg. Molly smiled and picked her up, holding her between herself and Sherlock. Sherlock moved a strand of Masie’s hair from her face as Molly kissed her forehead.


	9. Chapter 9

On the morning of the thirteenth of February, Sherlock knocked on Molly’s door at 7 am on the dot. Under his arm was a box wrapped in a bright yellow wrapping paper. He couldn't explain his antipathy with the colour. For some reason unknown to him the colour was rather ghastly anywhere away from Molly's wardrobe. It somehow seemed much darker to him than everyone else believed it. He knew it was one of Maisie’s favourite colours (likely because her mother wore it so often) so he tolerated it in their presence.

The door opened a minute later to a yawning Molly who rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hands. Her hair was a tousled mess, informing him that she had had a rather rough night. She hadn’t even bothered to tie her yellow dressing gown, exposing her baby blue chemise. Had she not been so exhausted perhaps she would have blushed as she tied her dressing gown.

“Oh, good morning Sherlock.” She stepped aside, allowing him to step in and leaning her cheek into his lips.

“Where is she?” he asked as he stepped into the kitchen. He set the box on the counter and began to make coffee for the pair.

He heard the front door close and lock before Molly appeared in the kitchen as she yawned again. “Sleeping. You know, like a normal toddler.” She sat down at the tiny round dining table. “I’m surprised I managed to get her to sleep. She was so hyper last night.”

He measured out the beans into the coffee grinder. “Well, today is her birthday.”

“As I heard about thirty-thousand times last night.” Molly let out a laugh, leaning an elbow on the table. “I can’t believe she’s two years old.”

“I still can’t believe she exists.” His attempt at a joke. Molly smiled as her eyes flicked to the linoleum floor. Her mind still hung heavy with guilt from keeping her a secret, but she knew it was for the best. Sherlock had had enough to worry about.

She was silent until he set a mug of steaming hot liquid in front of her. He returned her mumbled thanks with a nod. He didn’t sit, only stood next to her. She wanted to hold his hand, but some days it felt hard to believe that they were together, that she was allowed to hold his hand. Often times it was Maisie who helped them remember. She would run to her father, arms out and ready to be picked up. Once Maisie was in the air, Molly would run over and take Maisie from him, not confiscating her, but starting a game of who could have Maisie the longest. Sherlock usually won. He’d take her away and tell her facts about poisonous plants and the rates at which different types of organic matter decay and how all of this could be used in investigations. Honestly, Molly thought her daughter may just grow up to be the world’s second consulting detective. It could be a family business.

Anyways, without Maisie around they spoke in small talk or they didn’t speak at all. It wasn’t awkward. It was just silent. And silence was sometimes nice, but she did wish she had enough courage to take his hand in hers. But she was surprised. At the sound of Maisie’s feet padding through the hallway her hand became intertwined in his and she smiled, standing and following him into the sitting room. Maisie, bubbly as ever, called for her father and ran, wrapping his arms around his legs.

Sherlock let go of her hand and got down on his knees, place his arms on his daughter’s shoulders and giving her a smile. “I’ve brought a present.”

Her eyes glistened. “For me?”

He chuckled. “Though I believe that birthdays and ages shouldn’t be as big a deal as others make them into, I suppose yours should receive more attention than any other, so yes. I’ve brought you a present.” Maisie giggled and practically skipped behind her father as he led her into the kitchen where he got the yellow box down  and sat on the floor in front of her. She took it from him, cheerful and cautious.

Usually when she opened anything with wrapping she would just tear at it until it was in shreds on the floor, but for the very first time Molly saw the two year old observe the box before slowly and carefully picking at the folded bits, careful to keep all of it in tact. It was surgery.

Underneath all the wrapping was a long box and once the top came off a gasp escaped Maisie lips and Molly could have sworn her eyes teared up a bit. She pulled out the walnut coloured violin and carefully held it to her chest, her eyes closing as a smile pulled apart her lips.

“It’s beautiful,” Maisie whispered as she set it down. She stood and walked to her father, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I love it! Thank you Daddy!”

His hand cupped her cushion of bushy brown hair. “You’re welcome Maisie Bronwyn.” After she pulled away, he leaned forward and picked up the tiny violin (well, tiny compared to him, anyways). “This is a 19th century Mittenwald violin. It’s a 1/16 size, so it should be good for you for a couple of years.”

“Will you teach me how to play?” Maisie loved listening to Sherlock play his violin. Molly knew that being taught how to play by her father would blend her dreams into a reality and her heart warmed at the thought of the two standing by the window at Baker Street, violins beneath their chins, the bow racing across the strings.

“Well, how would you learn if I don’t?” He grinned. “We’ll start next time you’re over, alright?”

“Can we start today, pwease?” Sherlock looked to Molly who couldn’t help but say yes. Maisie clapped her little hands together and jumped up. “When can we start?”

“Perhaps later today. Your mother and I have some plans for the day.”

Maisie’s smile dropped. “Without me?”

Molly laugh, scooping her daughter up into a tight hug. “Of course not you silly little bee.” Maisie giggled as Sherlock snagged her from her mother.

“Where are we going?” She asked between laughs.

“The aquarium.” Sherlock held Maisie to his side and looked down at her. “Molly tells me you’ve been dying to go.”

“The ‘quarium?” Maisie gasped. “Can we see the catsharks?”

“Of course Maisie Bronwyn.” He set her down and she buzzed with excitement.

Maisie ruffled her hair and then gently pushed her towards the hall. “Now then, go pick out your birthday outfit.” Maisie hopped until she disappeared into her bedroom.

* * *

 

Sherlock loved to play like he was tough and emotionless, but around Maisie he seemed to change. He smiled. He … loved her, but he felt something stabbing at his mind when he was around her or any child, really. Something heavy and dark. Something uneasy. And as they walked through the dark exhibits, gazing as sharks lazily floated passed the three he felt that uneasiness become much thicker, more tangible. 

Molly could see it. She could tell by the way he stared off into space, likely digging through his mind palace for some sort of information. She took his hand in hers, squeezing it. He was kicked from his thoughts as he looked down at her hand in his. After a moment he squeezed it back and Molly smiled, leaning her head against his. 

“Are you okay?” she asked, watching as Maisie pressed herself against the glass and watched the sharks in awe.

“Of course I’m okay.” He rested his head atop of hers. “I’m always okay.”

“No you’re not.” She waited a moment, listening to Maisie spouting out facts about sharks that Molly had no idea how she found out. She was just like her father, practically waking up everyday with new facts drilled into her brain. She pulled away, looking up into his eyes, searching for whatever he was hiding. “Sherlock, you know you can talk to me.”

“Of course I do.”

“Then why aren’t you?”

He let out a slightly frustrated breath. “Because I’ve no clue what’s the matter.”

She cocked her head at him, then smiled. “We can figure it out together then.” Suddenly her eyes closed and his lips were soft against hers. The kiss was gentle and sweet and last only slightly longer than appropriate in public. As soon as they pulled away from each other, endorphins buzzing, Maisie was tugging on Molly’s orange floral dress.

“Mum mum, did you know that girl sharks have really thick skin?”

“I did not,” she said at the same time as Sherlock said “I did-” She shot him an eye and he quickly added “not. I did not know that.” 

She couldn’t help but smile. “And why do the girls have such thick skin?”

“I dunno really. I don’t think I’m ‘posed to know.”

You don’t think so?”

Maisie rocked on her feet. “It’s because the boys bite them while they mate but what is mating?”

Molly froze as her eyes widened. Maisie cocked her head as her father opened his mouth to explain, but Molly hushed him with her finger.

“Oh, darling, it’s nothing.”

“But what is it?”

Sherlock pushed away Molly’s finger. “It’s when two sharks get together and have-”

“Fun!” Molly shot daggers into his eyes before turning back to her daughter with a warm, but undeniably awkward smile. “Like a playdate. A shark playdate.”

“But biting is mean.”

“Not to sharks. It’s like when Meena brings over her cat and she and Toby wrestle and bite and kick. It’s just their way of play.”

Maisie seemed satisfied with this explanation, nodding her head and skipping back to the glass where she began telling the same fact to a little boy who also had his nose pressed to the glass. 

Sherlock quirked a brow. “Did you just compare sex to a playdate?”

“Yes, I think I did.”

“Hm.”

* * *

 

The day came to an end around 8 pm after Maisie had been tucked into John’s old bed. Exhausted from a day full of sea life and learning the basics of violin she had fallen asleep almost immediately upon hitting the mattress. 

Molly sat in Sherlock’s bed, reading a copy of Jane Eyre that she’d found on the top layer of his bookshelf. Sherlock lay next to her, head resting on her lap, already changed into his white t-shirt and blue pyjama bottoms. His fingers lay steepled atop his lips, eyes closed, and after a few minutes Molly found her fingers running through his curls.

She set down the book and gave all of her focus to him. “Any breakthroughs?”

“Something to do with water, I think.” His eyes shot open and he sat up, staring at Molly. “Something about water, all my life. But what?”

“Why can’t you remember?”

“I must have deleted it.” He let out a heavy sigh as he scratched at his temple. “But why?  _ Why _ ?”

Molly scooted closer to him, taking his hands from his temples and grasping them in hers. “You’ll find it, whatever it is. And I will be here when you do.” She kissed him, gentle and sweet. Short. “I promise you, I’ll be here.”

His gaze traveled down to her lips as her tongue darted out to wet them. Her eyes flickered down to his as they seemed to get closer and closer before smushing against hers in some sort of dance that was far more passionate than the kiss they had just shared. Molly couldn’t complain though. Before long she found herself atop his lap, earning herself a low groan from deep within his throat.

He pulled away, the two of them breathing heavily. “I thought you wanted to take it slow this time.”

“In your own words, Sherlock,”  She ran a hand through his hair, leaning forward until her nose brushed against his, “we’ve already had sex.”

She felt his grin against her lips. “So?”

She opened her eyes, locking down on his. “ _ Damn taking things slow _ .”


End file.
